


SPECTACULAR

by provocation



Category: Baby Driver (2017), Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Crossover, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-07 21:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: "You are the music while the music lasts." -T. S. EliotBaby steals the most important car of his life. Eggsy kidnaps an American. In an unrelated plotline, Roxy also kidnaps an American. Debora learns her calling and changes her name, and so does Tequila. Harry and Merlin learn what they've been hiding from each other.Alternate title: Baby Driver 2: English Boogaloo





	1. RUN FOR COVER

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijugroupiee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijugroupiee/gifts).



> First and foremost, congratulations to the best friend I could ever ask for on your graduation! I hope you enjoy this niche present that turned ridiculously long. Love you forever.
> 
> To everyone else, I am so sorry. I know as little about how this happened as you do. Reading this without watching Kingsman: The Golden Circle or Baby Driver would be inadvisable because the story draws from both universes and then kind of goes on its own adventure. Also the content/trigger warnings will probably change but there are mentions of drug usage/abuse, mentions of sex trafficking, canon-typical violence, and character death.
> 
> Please enjoy, and let me know what you think!
> 
> (Also, Debora listening to whale songs to fall asleep is canon (from the Baby Driver screenplay)! “Hell, I get to sleep listening to whale song. Never even seen a whale but I sleep with one.”)

If you were to ask Baby how he ended up dying in Atlanta, bleeding out two sides of his skull as everyone around him watched in tragic horror, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. Mostly on account of the fact that he was dead, and as it turns out, being shot in the head sure is an effective way to get your brain to shut up.

The location is the least surprising part of the story, really; anyone who knew Baby could tell you that he’s been in danger of dying as long as he’s been living in Atlanta. Born a bastard child to a bastard father, Baby had never aspired to rise above his station and instead grew into the criminal lifestyle like a pair of his dad’s dirty shoes. If you were to ask his parents how he ended up dying, they wouldn’t be able to give you a clear answer either, on account of the fact that they were both long dead. His jury would call it predictable, as would his parole officer, whose name is currently vibrating on a phone screen.

His girlfriend, Debora, has had her eyes pinned on the phone for the last eight minutes. Finally the buzzing stops and the screen displays the message: SEVEN MISSED CALLS – IRIS PARK.

The phone belongs to Baby, who is alive and well with no knowledge that he’s going to die in five months. Baby currently has his eyes glued to a sticky diner menu that he’s been examining for the last ten minutes. His black coffee’s lukewarm on the table while Debora’s cup is half-empty already. She wonders to herself why they keep going to diners and reliving the same coffees and cheesecakes. They’re on the first leg of a cross-country tour of America, and Baby seems determined to have no new experiences. It might be a comfort zone thing for him but it’s getting old.

The phone rings once more and Baby doesn’t stir, eyebrows drawing close together as he studies the poor font choices and ruminates over omelette ingredients. He’s got his headphones in as usual, but he’s listening to an iPod in his pocket, not his cell phone. Debora can just picture Iris Park sitting in her office, staring at her phone the exact same way that Debora is staring at Baby right now, feeling the urge to get up and walk away. Debora almost wishes his phone would vibrate right off the table.

“Don’t you think you should get that,” Debora finally steels herself to ask, and Baby looks up at her, doe-eyed and innocent. He looks confused, and then clues in when he sees the phone. Irritation twitches on his features and he glances back at the menu. Debora continues, “She might be mad you’re not picking up.”

“I’ll tell her I was driving,” says Baby.

“She might be even madder about that,” Debora tries to reason before reaching for the phone. Baby doesn’t stop her but there’s a sudden discomfort on his face that makes her uneasy, so she doesn’t pick up the call, letting it go to voicemail for an eighth time. She has developed an uncanny talent for reading Baby’s face to cope with how little he communicates with words. Sometimes his eyes while he listens to his favourite songs tell her more than he could share if they had a thousand years together. But mostly, she suspects he’s not telling her everything.

Maybe Baby is getting good at reading her face too, because he yanks out one of his headphones (a small victory) and takes a sip of coffee. His lip tugs downwards with a disgusted frown and he returns the mug to the table, but he doesn’t bother searching through the menu, eyes on Debora now. “Wasn’t supposed to leave the state,” he mumbles like a guilty child confessing something to a parent. “That’s why she’s mad.”

“Shit,” Debora swears, and then as the ramifications sink in, “ _Shit_ , Baby. Shit. Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”

Baby sinks down in the uncomfortable plastic booth and gives a dejected shrug. “I dunno. Guess I didn’t want to ruin your road trip dreams.”

Debora opens her mouth and then shuts it, looking like a very pretty goldfish. She doesn’t have the heart to tell Baby that her road trip dreams weren’t going from diner to diner with a felon who checks over his shoulder every two steps and freaks out whenever he sees a weapon. Baby is her best friend in the world, but her road trip dreams had been about leaving the nightmarish service industry for something more glamorous and less definable. She wanted— she still wants to remake herself, although at this rate she’s pretty sure she’s going to do the same work every day until she dies. They might be three states away from Atlanta now, but she still feels trapped. With a pang, Debora realizes that Baby being here with her doesn’t make her feel any less trapped.

Debora starts, “I think we have to—” but an abrupt vibration interrupts her. Ninth time must be the charm because Baby hesitates, but he reaches forward and answers the call. Debora watches him bluster through an awkward conversation, scratching his head and trying to avoid her gaze. At one point he rips out his headphones to hear better, and the waitress stops by to pour them some more coffee. Debora looks up at the server in her red and white uniform and gives her a banal smile to hide how she feels like she’s drowning in her realization.

Finally Baby hangs up, looking more morose than before. “We gotta go back,” he says, and it sounds like an apology. “Something about violating my parole. She ain’t happy.”

Debora reaches across the table and takes Baby’s hand between hers, biting the inside of her cheek. “I think I’m gonna stay here, Baby.”

No comprehension dawns on his face— in fact, Baby looks more lost than before. “In…” He glances down at the sticky menu. “Louisville, Kentucky?”

“No,” Debora contradicts herself, and then pulls her hand away. “Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know, I… I can work anywhere, Baby. There’s always gonna be another shitty diner like this that needs waitresses.”

Baby stares, and she wishes she didn’t know how to read his face so well. His heart is plummeting. “That’s what you want?”

“I don’t know,” she repeats, and clenches her jaw. “But I think I need some space to figure it out. On my own.”

To Baby’s credit, he doesn’t push her, and he doesn’t bring up the year he was in prison that should’ve given her more than enough space. He doesn’t protest at all, and maybe that itself is a sign. Shouldn’t they want to fight for each other? Baby gets up from the table, putting down a few bills that covers the cost of their coffees and a generous tip. He reaches for his phone as an afterthought, giving her one last nervous look. “I’ll… uh. I’ll call you later?”

“Course.” A wave of relief hits her; they’re still going to be friends. Baby nods, same relief evident on his face below a layer of uncertainty, before he makes his exit. Debora watches his awkward walk to the car, and fast on the heels of her relief is guilt and anxiety and nerves. Baby waits beside his vehicle for half a minute, and then climbs in and drives away. It makes her feel even guiltier that the ball of anxiety in her stomach disappears once Baby is gone, and that for an instant she feels blinding freedom and wonder. She isn’t tied down to a thing or a person in the world, and she can do whatever she wants.

The waitress comes to pick up the money for their bill, and reality catches up fast. Debora bites her cheek and forces herself to be an adult. “Hey, are y’all hiring?”

 

 

The only thing that has held Baby’s attention for the last seven hours is the road and his music, which is not particularly unusual. He’s not used to driving through the country at all but once he adjusts to the lack of traffic and noise he starts to relax and almost enjoy the drive. His emotions are impossible to name or process right now so he blocks them out in favour of driving. Fortunately for him, he’s very, _very_ good at ignoring his emotions and focusing on the road ahead.

Kanye is blasting through his radio, and then classic rock, and then some pop song he’s never heard before. Baby stops paying attention to the music in the same way that he stops paying attention to his pulse. He knows it’s there, and it’s keeping him going, but he doesn’t pay any lyric any particular mind. He keeps his foot on the pedal and thinks about all the times there were criminals in his shotgun seat screaming at him to drive. He thinks about JD, and Bats, and Buddy and Darling. He thinks about Doc. He thinks about all his missing tapes he never got the chance to retrieve. He thinks about all the things he’d usually do anything not to think about, except that now they’re a welcome distraction from thinking about his best friend who just dumped him.

His knuckles loosen around the wheel; Baby realizes he’s been holding on for life, and sighs. He can’t think about Debora right now, or he’s going to drive himself crazy enough to turn the car around and drive back to Kentucky. He pulls off the road up to a building before realizing he hasn’t considered where he is, or why he drove here. The music shaking his car’s speakers is the loudest thing on the block, so Baby turns it down to a respectable volume. He peers out the windshield to see he’s arrived at a tall familiar building: Joseph’s care facility.

His foster father is elated to see him, although Baby has to wonder if some of that elation is due to dementia. He checks, turning his paranoia into a joke by signing the question, “Do you remember me?” Joseph responds with an eye roll, which needs no translation, and then ushers him in for a hug.

As Baby hugs Joseph relief washes over him, and he holds the old man close to his chest, hands curling into his sweater. When he pulls away Joseph has a fond smile fixed on him. He signs, “Where’s your girl?”

Baby replies that he lost her, and when Joseph frowns in concern he quickly amends, “I got dumped.”

Sympathy fills Joseph’s face and he pats Baby’s hand. “Are you staying out of trouble?”

Baby starts to respond but then drops his hands to his side and nods instead. Joseph doesn’t look like he believes him, but he ushers Baby in for another hug so somehow Baby reckons he’s off the hook.

 

 

It turns out the punishment for breaking your parole is community service, which feels like more of a reward than a punishment. Baby informs his parole officer of this after his first day of community service, and Iris responds with a cool glare. She leans back in her chair, trying to decode the meaning behind Baby’s words while he gives her his best schoolboy smile.

“Don’t tell me that,” she finally decides. Her accent is weird; Baby thinks she might be from Minnesota or Wisconsin. The highest North he’s ever been is Kentucky, so he can’t help but hang on her every word in curiosity. “It’s not supposed to be a reward, Miles, it’s a punishment for trying to escape the state of Georgia and violating your parole. If you’re enjoying it at all, it’s because you’ve got the best officer possible working your case. Me.”

“Right,” Baby mumbles, thinking back on his day. His assignment was to help beautify a local park, which had mainly involved weeding and picking up litter. But he also made two new friends— a coke dealer named Kim Vicious, and a very friendly Bernese mountain dog who Baby returned to his owner. _And_ he helped build a gazebo with only minor splinters, which he lifts his hand to show Iris with pride.

“Fucking hell, Miles,” Iris says, reaching for his hand and examining it. She strides over to the first aid kit in the corner of her office, shaking her head. Her hair is shorter than the last time Baby saw it, which seems unusual; he would have assumed the passage of time meant her hair _grew_. “Fuck. Do not injure yourself during your community service, and do _not_ befriend any convicted drug dealers.”

“What about ones that were never convicted,” he asks as Iris squeezes the splinters out of his palm, and then winces from both the stinging pain and her stinging glare. “That was a joke!”

“Do not make jokes,” Iris tells him, and she seems as serious as always, so Baby nods and makes a mental note— no jokes. They don’t often come to him anyway, so he doesn’t foresee that being a problem. “Just, please remember to go online and punch in your hours, and once you’ve filled out a timesheet, come back and see me. And _don’t_ leave the state again.”

Iris slaps a bandage onto his palm despite the lack of any blood, and Baby nods before he remembers a problem. “I don’t have any internet.”

“O.K., well—” Iris starts in the same tone she talks about everything with, and then she softens. “Okay. Well. You can use my computer, and we’ll look at getting something set up at your apartment so you can use your phone, or… something. Don’t look like that— you look so scared. We’re going to figure everything out, Miles. I am going to help you; it’s my job.”

“Right,” Baby says, and tries to look less scared, but he’s not sure it works. He doesn’t feel scared at all, only sad. The last time he saw his apartment was when he and Debora packed their things before heading out on what they thought would be their Great American Road Trip. Their trip lasted a while, long enough for the buzz surrounding his case to die down, but he supposes that eventually everything good has to end. He’s not sure how Iris tracked him down and he wants to ask her, but instead what comes out is, “Where’re you from?”

“Quebec,” Iris tells him. Baby is 90% sure that isn’t a real place.

 

 

It turns out his apartment is exactly the same as he left it. The same posters are hanging in the same spots, and there’s a knife on the corner of the kitchen sink, waiting for someone to come along and wash it. The first noticeable change is that when Baby turns on the faucet, not a drop of water comes out. It is a curious development until Baby realizes that nobody’s paid the water bill in months, and then it is only a disappointing development.

“Sorry, you’re gonna have to wait,” Baby says to the knife. It seems just as disappointed as he is.

Thankfully, you don’t have to pay a blanket for it to work, so Baby strips down, shaking and rubbing off what sawdust and dirt he can, and then collapses into bed. The city is loud outside his window, which is a sickening familiarity he almost forgot to miss. He hears shouting and music, and then smells weed, acrid and sour. But nobody climbs up his fire escape to shoot him, so Baby falls into a sound sleep.

And then wakes up with a jerk two hours later to the sound of rhythmic gunshots, too rhythmic to be real. Baby’s ears can differentiate the percussion in his memories from real sounds but his brain is easier to trick. He stays awake in bed for the next forty-five minutes, staring at the ceiling and waiting for another gunshot.

He has the fleeting thought that he should go wake up Joseph before he remembers that Joseph is at the Holiday Villa Assisted Senior Living facility. He lets his guard down for a second to think about Debora, and without warning the thoughts he deflected all week flood his mind. He wonders how she’s doing, and if she’s working as a waitress again. She hadn’t seemed happy at all working at the diner, but she seemed safe, and maybe that’s what’s more important to her.

Finally he bites the bullet and texts her, hoping she won’t think his lack of messaging skills horrendous. He’s never had anyone to text before; Doc preferred calling (for obvious criminal reasons) and Darling laughed when he asked for her phone number. His previous conversations with Debora last only a few messages long, so Baby feels weird as he types out a text and sends it.

**I hope youre doing well.**

He shuts his eyes, but then the reply comes almost right away. A weight eases in his chest.

**I am. Are you okay?**

**Can’t sleep. Got any ideas?**

**Whale songs put me right out :)**

Baby sits up in bed and his phone falls onto his lap; his screen is bright enough to illuminate the room. He already knew that fact about Debora, of course. She’d played the haunting sounds of whale calls every time they got a new motel room. At first it kept him up, but he usually fell asleep listening to his own music with headphones anyway.

One night his iPod died and he hadn’t wanted to disturb her by going to grab another one, so he laid there listening to _Gentle Whale Sounds_ and willing his brain to fall asleep. Eventually it did the trick, and Baby slept… well, like a baby. It was the soundest sleep he’d had in years, so the next night he didn’t put his own music on, leaning into the impulse. Baby isn’t a stunningly smart person, but he’s pretty sure the reason he can’t fall back asleep isn’t that he’s missing whale sounds. It’s that he needs to listen to _something_ other than the city before he loses himself to loneliness.

He starts listening to everything he’d recorded today, a habit that Iris had commended as “weird, but harmless”. Instead of feeling slumber overtake him, Baby feels more awake by the second as he listens to Vicious talk about his old clients, and then listens to the owners of the dog thank him for tracking them down. He listens to Iris, and replays some of her words over and over again, examining the shape of them. _“Do not make jokes_ ” echoes through his apartment, louder than he’d ever allowed himself before, even when Joseph lived here. Baby almost hopes someone will come knock on his door and tell him to shut up, because it would mean he wouldn’t be alone tonight.

He remixes “do not make jokes” and “fucking hell” into a catchy little tune that he thinks would probably garner a smile from Darling, if not Iris, and then closes the tape. The smell of Sharpie is strong as he writes the title: QUABEC.

QUABEC goes on the shelf next to MOM, the only other tape he’s got left. The other tapes are all back at Doc’s old lair where he left them, and Baby’s stomach curdles at the thought. He hates the idea of some police officer going in there and finding all his recorded memories, labelled and ready to snoop through. Or worse, going in there and throwing everything out, turning the graveyard into a ghost town.

Before Baby can stop himself, he’s pulling on jeans and a sweater and turning keys in his ignition. Once his brain has caught hold of the idea, it’s impossible to stop his body from going, so he goes. The only thing he forgets is his phone, which lights up with a message hours after he leaves.

**Hope you finally got some sleep!**

 

 

It would be hard for Baby to forget the layout of Doc’s place, even though time has already started to heal some of his trauma. He has managed to convince himself that he doesn’t remember the sound of Bats’ voice. Sometimes he hears men on television or confident passersby and he has to wonder if their voices sound scary because they’re familiar, or if he is assigning more terror to Bats than his memory deserves. Sometimes he has to struggle to remember the details of what their last job was about, and that feels good. It starts to blur together like all old jobs do, which makes it easier to forget. Baby has already forgotten what tattoos Darling had on her arms, but he doubts he’ll ever forget how to get to this place, or how to get inside.

He lets himself in, parking in the garage like he’s a normal person going into work— at four in the morning. He half-expects to see Doc lying dead on the ground, or Buddy standing in the elevator waiting for him, but thankfully the garage is empty. The whole building feels empty, actually; Baby doesn’t encounter anyone until he makes it upstairs, and even then he doesn’t see them right away.

Part of him had expected the tapes left spread across the table like how he’d last seen them, but they’re nowhere to be found. The table is gone too at a first glance; Baby finally finds it shoved against the far wall, covered in files and papers. This place does not look as untouched as his apartment. There are new boxes labelled with words and names that Baby doesn’t recognize. One box grabs his attention immediately: it is simply labelled ‘GUNS’, written on the cardboard in bold marker. Baby steers clear of that box, and starts to look around for his tapes when he hears a door open.

Panicking, Baby yanks his headphones out and looks around for the source of the noise. Quiet music can be heard from his earbuds so he pauses the song, but after a long period of silence nobody reveals themselves. He assumes he’s safe, and puts one earbud back in, only to hear someone say, “Well, would you look at that. Baby on board.”

A sharp, cruel laugh from someone else follows the sentence, and Baby spins around to the source of the noise. He eyes the GUNS box with trepidation, hoping against hope he doesn’t have to get into a fight. He has the sudden thought that Iris would probably not be thrilled by this situation. “Hello?” he calls out to the dark room.

“Hi,” the voice replies from the shadows before someone steps into what little light there is. It’s an unfamiliar woman with long red wavy hair falling over her shoulders, and she has a pistol pointed right at him. The sight makes his heart race; Baby hasn’t seen a gun on anyone other than a cop in a long time. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Baby, I _really_ didn’t expect to ever see you crawling back here.”

The source of the laugh enters from behind the woman, a tall man who is also completely unfamiliar. Tall is almost an understatement; he towers over the woman even in her heels. He’s got a mop of curly hair on his head, and as he smirks, Baby can already sense that this guy is a real dick. Something about his nature reminds Baby of Griff, which is never a good sign. “Guess it’s true what they say about the American prison system.” The tall man sniffs. “Shit don’t work.”

Baby shifts from foot to foot. He wonders how long it would take him to rip open a cardboard box and then remember how to use a firearm. “Do I know you?”

It’s as if he’s asked to see their IDs. The tall man snarls, and the woman’s eyes flash with clear and sudden anger. She is terrifying. “You don’t get to ask that yet, Baby, not until you answer _my_ questions.” Her voice is cool and unaffected by any dialect, and it makes every word even more chilling. “Why have you come back here?”

“How do you know my name?” demands Baby. She cocks her gun, and he raises his hands in surrender. “I just came back to pick up something I left here. Promise I don’t want any trouble.”

“Oh,” the woman says and lowers her gun. Baby thinks that it cannot possibly be as easy as that, but she unloads and holsters it, letting the magazine drop to the floor. The man behind her looks at her in confusion before lowering his own gun, and _shit_ , Baby hadn’t even noticed that he had a gun too. “I know what you left here! Box of tapes, right?”

“Yeah,” Baby says, uncertain. He watches the woman cross the room to the table at the back, where she bends to dig out some boxes from underneath it. If she wasn’t accosting him in a private crime lair at four in the morning he might wonder if she was a cop— the holster on her hip is hanging off of a fully stocked utility belt. Cops tend to make Baby just as uneasy as criminals, so the idea of some kind of combination is not great.

The woman pulls a few boxes out of the way to reveal one marked ‘BABY’ in that same large marker handwriting, and beckons him to come over. Feeling like he’s walking right into a trap, Baby approaches her and the box with no small amount of trepidation. The woman pulls a utility knife off her belt and easily slices through the tape to reveal the contents of the box: his prized tapes.

Forgetting his fear, Baby jumps towards the collection of tapes, examining them with care. They look to have been perfectly preserved. He feels a rush of twisted affection for the horrid villain that was Doc. He could say a thousand things about the man, but at least he’d kept the tapes safe and sound.

As if the woman read his mind, she puts away her knife and explains, “From what I heard they were important to you, so I packed them up.” Baby mentally rescinds the affection for Doc. “It’d be great if you took them off our hands, there’s way too much junk here already.”

“How do you know that,” Baby asks, feeling stupid that he has no idea who the fuck these people are. The only people that knew his tapes were here are Debora and a pack of ghosts.

The woman doesn’t answer, instead offering him a hand. “My name’s Darcy, and this is Vernal.”

“Means springlike,” the man smiles. Baby has never seen a less springlike person in his life.

“You can call him Vern,” Darcy smiles too. It’s powerfully unsettling. “Vern, would you be a gentleman and help Baby carry the box down to his car?”

“Yep,” Vern says, hefting the box up into his arms with no effort required. Baby reaches out a hand to help, but his assistance would be pointless. “Follow me, Baby.”

And then Vern walks out. Darcy is still smiling with her hands on her hips where Baby can see her gun and knife and at least four other weapons, so he follows Vern.

Doing so results in the most uncomfortable elevator ride he’s ever had, which is saying something considering the number of awkward rides he’s had in _this very elevator_. At one point Baby starts to ask “Don’t you-” and then can’t think of which of his dozen questions to ask first, so he wilts under the tall man’s gaze. “Never mind.”

They reach the parking lot and Baby is unlocking his car and popping the trunk before they’ve even stepped out of the elevator, keys shaking in his hand. “It’s that one,” he says, but Vern seems to know and heads in its direction. Baby suspects he would have known even if Baby hadn’t done a thing.

He follows Vern over to the car and jumps a little as the man slams the trunk closed. Vern turns to face him, face inscrutable. There’s a scar through his eyebrow that Baby only notices now. “Good night,” he says, and then turns away and walks back to the elevator.

Baby gets into his car and puts the keys in the ignition, but he doesn’t turn them. His mind is reeling with what just happened, and he doesn’t know how to begin processing it, so he sits in stunned silence for the next five minutes. He thinks he should text Iris. He wonders if he should text Debora. Then, finally, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he pulls the keys out of the ignition.

When he gets out of the elevator on the top floor he can hear Vern and Darcy talking through the walls. He tries to listen to their conversation but can only pick up the most mundane words. They seem to be talking about nothing but alcohol, which is thoroughly uninteresting. He finally summons all the courage he has, and ignores the voice in the back of his head begging him to get in his car and drive away. He walks into the room.

Immediately Vern greets him with a surprised laugh, before reaching into his pocket to hand Darcy a wad of bills— all hundreds. Baby can’t remember the last time he saw that much cash. “You were right,” Vern says, grinning. In the dark garage Baby had only been able to see the part of the scar that interrupted his eyebrow, but now that Darcy has turned on the lights he can see the full shape of it. There is a long line running across Vern’s face that crosses from his eyebrow to his cheek, and then his nose to his mouth and around to his jaw. It looks almost like someone carved an S into his face, and Baby immediately tries to forget that thought. “He came back.”

“Who are you?” demands Baby. “How do you know me? Why are you here? Do you know Doc?”

That same anger flashes through Darcy’s eyes and for a moment Baby’s body seizes up with fear that she’s going to kill him. But then she does something worse; she laughs. It’s a high, horrid cackle that echoes through the wide room. Once she’s finished laughing, Darcy raises a hand to wipe away a comical tear, and then stares at Baby. A grin stretches across her face. “Do I know Doc? Oh, Baby, do I know Doc! I used to be Mrs. Doc.”

That makes about as little sense as anything Baby’s ever heard his whole life, so he stares at her in stunned silence. Darcy seems to delight in his slack-jawed surprise, and she slides off the table she’s been sitting on. Vern is watching Baby too, keenly waiting for his reaction. Baby doesn’t know how to react at all; he knew Doc had an ailing mother, but he never mentioned a wife— or an ex-wife.

Darcy stalks towards him until she’s right in front of him, eyeing him curiously. If it was anyone else Baby might feel put off or embarrassed by the intimate proximity. With her, he’s terrified. He feels like prey pushed back into a corner by a predator. Darcy cocks her head to the side and asks, tone innocent, “You miss him?”

“No,” Baby spits out. It might be the wrong answer but it’s the truth.

“Good,” Darcy grins. “Me neither.” She takes a step back and Baby finally breathes, taking in nervous gulps of air. Darcy’s eyes are still pinned to him but she walks away, back to Vern’s side. “We were married decades ago, but he kept in touch with me even after our divorce. It was an amicable break-up; we just wanted different things. He wanted a secret kingdom, I wanted an empire.”

She falls silent, apparently waiting for an answer, but Baby has nothing to say. After a moment Darcy clicks her tongue, disappointed. “I don’t see the value in keeping my work secret,” she continues. “I want to establish myself globally, not stay a secret menace to the Atlanta underworld. Do you remember Poppy?”

One of the only benefits to prison was that when the rest of the world decided it wanted to stop making sense, Baby was locked away from the disaster that was Poppy. He had been incarcerated during the whole crisis that happened nearly a year ago. While he’s thankful to have missed the brunt of it, he did see his fair share of the poison; most of his cellmates fell victim from their drug addictions, past or present. Baby hasn’t smoked weed in years so by the time it started to kick in for him, the antidote was already released. He was only blue for a few hours, but many of his company reached far worse stages.

Shaking off the memories, Baby just nods. Yes, he remembers the murderous drug lord who had the entire world at her disposal. Darcy looks positively smitten. “She’s one of my heroes. Poppy inspired me to do great things, but not with drugs. I’m in the business of death. Firearms, assassinations, you name it, I’m making money off it. I like to keep a finger in every pie.”

Baby isn’t sure what she means, and he doesn’t want to ask her to clarify anything about her evil monologue, so he nervously fiddles with his earbud. “So Doc told you about me?”

Darcy nods. “About you, about your dad, about your foster dad, about your girlfriend… Baby, I’m an expert. Ask me any questions you have about yourself and I’ll tell you the answer right now. Here’s one. Why are you here?”

Baby has a sinking feeling he knows where this is going. It feels remarkably like getting caught in a conversation with Doc; Darcy is speaking too fast for him to keep up. “Why am I here?”

“You’re here because you miss it. Don’t you, Baby?” Darcy leans back against the table. Vern’s tongue darts out to lick his lower lip, covering the scar. Baby’s heart is pounding. “You miss driving fast, and hotwiring new cars, and blasting your music so loud it’s illegal. You miss having money— enough money to set your girlfriend up for life.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Baby corrects Darcy, and immediately regrets it when he sees the look on her face. Vern makes a soft, sympathetic noise.

Darcy doesn’t miss a beat, shaking her head and continuing. “Alright, well, you miss having enough money to never have to worry about what you’re going to eat, or if you’re going to be able to fill up a tank of gas; not that that’s going to be a problem, because you’re going to have a new tank of gas every ten minutes. You’re going to have a new car every ten minutes, and you can keep whichever ones you want; hell, Baby, I’ll set you up with a private lot. And if you think I’m taking a cut of anything, think again. You’re going to earn your money, and then you’re going to keep it, because you don’t owe me anything except your loyalty.”

“My loyalty—”

“I’m not Doc, Baby, I’m better. I’m the real deal.” Darcy shrugs, as if to be modest about this fact. “You could say I have loftier goals than my husband, and to meet those goals I need a competent driver like you on my team. Are you in?”

Baby swallows around the lump in his throat. He remembers this. “Am I in?”

“You’re in,” Darcy tells him. It feels like a death sentence. “Come back here tomorrow at eight-thirty sharp, and bring some lattes. I promise you those lost dogs at the park will live without you for one day, and Iris Park doesn’t have to know a thing about it.”

This floors Baby, and he stares at Darcy for too long before finally replying. He feels guilty as he speaks, but there’s an undercurrent of excitement; he misses belonging to something, and being a part of an organization greater than himself. And at the end of the day, was Doc really so bad? He tries to reason with himself that guys like Bats and Buddy and Griff were so much worse. This will be a quick, secret way to get back on his feet, and then he can leave however he wants, because he doesn’t owe Darcy a debt. “I have terms.”

“ _Terms_ ,” Vern laughs, a deep-throated chuckle that shakes his whole body. “Never heard that one before.”

Darcy only raises an eyebrow and patiently waits, so Baby demands, ignoring his nerves, “No killing. I mean, I won’t kill. And I won’t hold a weapon. Just driving. I don’t wanna come on any of the big jobs either.” The tiny voice in his mind that sounds like Iris is screeching, so to assuage his conscience he adds, “And I won’t leave the state. Does that sound like a deal, Darcy?”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Baby,” Darcy says after a beat of hesitation, and walks over to shake his hand. “Just one more thing— if we’re gonna be in bed together, I don’t want you calling me Darcy. You can call me Doc.”

 

 

Here’s how working for Doc is different.

None of the people on his team are ever recognizable at first, but they stick around for subsequent missions. The old Doc refused to work with the same crew twice, but the new Doc has made it very clear she knows how to keep people loyal to her. When the same people climb into his car day in and day out Baby figures he should start getting to know them.

One of those people is Doc, who goes out on most of their jobs; this, again, is radically different. The old Doc was a queen bee, never leaving his hive for fear of actual danger facing him. The new Doc leans out of the window on Baby’s first job with her and catcalls a preacher holding a sign telling her she’s Going To Hell. So that’s new.

Vern comes on most of their jobs too, and as Baby starts to get to know him he realizes that his initial assumptions about the man (that he was a moron) had been incorrect. Vern is Doc’s point man, always at her side with encyclopedic knowledge of all their marks. He carries a rifle, which is a scary thing to see anyone carry, and Baby doesn’t know if it makes it better or worse that Vern is really good with his gun.

On his third job they rob a post office, and Baby expresses no small amount of concern over attempting this again. Doc tells him he only has to come pick them up, not drop them off. Somehow that does make him feel better. When everyone climbs into his car, Vern patiently waits for him to rewind through the song so he can leave on the right beat. Vern is still tightly holding his rifle and his clown mask makes him look like a cartoon villain, but he doesn’t say a word as they speed away to _Wear Your Love Like Heaven_. The patience is reassuring. The smile peeking out from under his mask is not.

In the backseat of their getaway sedan Doc is also untroubled by Baby’s hesitation to pull away, her attention focused on shouting at their third team member, who hasn’t been introduced to Baby yet. “Do you have an active desire to go back to jail, asshole?” Doc screams at the clown, shaking him by his shoulders. “Good fucking luck with that, because members of my crew don’t go to jail. They either live free forever, or they go to a fucking graveyard!”

“It wasn’t my fault,” the clown pleads, and then reaches up to tear off his mask. “My gun misfired, Doc, you gotta believe me!”

The sirens that have been following them since they pulled away from the post office lose them around a corner. As the radio wails out “ _be my lucky number seven, seven, seven, seven, seven,_ ” Baby allows himself a moment of curiosity and glances into the backseat at the unmasked clown. A moment later, he’s turning down the song, leaning his arm on the shotgun seat so he can turn around and face Doc and the familiar criminal. “Kim Vicious, is that you?”

It sure is. Baby recognizes the same unfortunate face tattoos and bright white hair. His new coworker is the drug dealer he’s been doing community service with for the past week. Kim turns away from Doc to look and then his jaw drops, and a wide smile dawns over his face. “Baby! What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Baby says, mind reeling. He can’t stop thinking about how he told Iris about Kim Vicious, how he _told Iris_ about someone on his new crew, how they just robbed a post office at four in the afternoon _again_ and surely this familiar face means he’s going back to jail. “How did you find me?”

“Baby, you’re driving,” Vern reminds him with a hand on his arm, and Baby shakes his grip off, turning back to look at the windshield.

He’s still on the highway but he swerves to avoid a VW, and then stares at Kim, distrust making his stomach churn. “ _How’d you find me_?” he repeats, tempted to just punch the brakes and watch all of them get whiplash.

“I found you both,” Doc interrupts, and Baby looks at her instead. “You don’t think I’d let Doc’s prodigy waste his time doing something useless like community service, do you? Vicious was there to keep an eye on you in case anything happened.”

Kim sucks his teeth, and then nods. “Honestly, I’m a little disappointed to see you working with Doc. I thought you were trying to rehabilitate your image.”

“I thought you were too,” Baby replies, pulling off the highway without even thinking about it.

“Yeah, well, selling blow pays more than building gazebos,” Kim says, and smiles at Baby like they’re exchanging secrets. Baby feels revolted, but he doesn’t say anything in response, just letting his mind wander for the rest of the trip. The new development explains how Doc knew about his community service, and it probably didn’t take much research for her to find Iris.

Baby stays quiet until they get back to the base, two cars later. Nobody pays him any attention as he dismisses himself from the post-job meeting, silently heading into another room. He dials Iris before taking the time to consider if that’s a good idea or not, but by the time he manages to talk himself out of it she’s already picked up. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Baby says, sitting down on someone’s bed. Judging by the trashy anime posters and British punk merch, this is definitely Kim’s room. “It’s me, uh… it’s Miles.”

“Yes, I have caller ID,” Iris replies. Her voice is tinny through the crappy connection; it doesn’t really sound like her. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Baby mutters, and stares at the ceiling. “Did you watch the news?”

“The post office thing?” asks Iris, and Baby doesn’t reply, seeing faces watching him from the popcorn plaster. He blinks, and they’re gone. “Yeah, I saw. I don’t know if it’s good for you to be watching things like that. You’ll drive yourself crazy relating the news to old situations you were forced to take part in.”

“Sure,” Baby mumbles, feeling lower than before. He slides down to lie on the bed, and shuts his eyes. “I just feel guilty.”

“You don’t have to feel guilty. You weren’t there today, and it’s not the same situation. Doc is gone, and you’re done being a criminal.” Every word she says is incorrect. Baby hears something whirring in the background; maybe Iris is making a smoothie. The mundanity of the idea is comforting. “How was community service today?”

Kim had talked his ear off about how excited he was to rob a post office, and then offered him a bump behind their gazebo. Baby had declined, thinking of Poppy and of all his friends in prison that had been unable to stop dancing until they stopped dancing forever. He watched Kim lift the key to his nose, but turned away as he took it. “Fine.”

“Good,” Iris says. The sound of her blender ceases. “Stay out of trouble, Miles. I’ll call you later.”

The line goes silent and Baby doesn’t move, letting his phone drop onto the bed but staying perfectly still. He hears the sound of people talking in the other room, but eventually their voices die down until all he can hear is his tinnitus. When he’s summoned enough energy from staring at an ugly pillow in the corner of Kim’s bed, Baby gets to his feet.

With the exception of Doc, the place is empty. The air smells like nail polish remover, and to confirm Baby’s suspicion there’s a trio of dirty glasses on the center of the table. Someone pushed said table closer to its old position in the room, and Baby half-expects to see Doc— the real Doc, the dead Doc— standing by the chalkboard telling him to go home for the night. Instead, the new Doc is sitting at the table, texting on her phone. She doesn’t glance up from the screen as she reaches to finish whatever brown liquid is at the bottom of the glass closest to her. “Need something, Baby?”

“No,” he replies instantly, watching her nimble wrist. He wonders if she does blow with Kim, or if she abstains. The old Doc insisted on staying sober; he would sometimes allow himself a glass of red but he would never do drugs, too worried that they would fuck his brilliant brain up irreparably. New Doc doesn’t seem to share that carefulness. Baby knows he should be wary around her but he can’t help but feel curious instead, his fear tempered by the desire to know more about why exactly Darcy resurfaced and why she chose him. “I wanna ask you a question.”

“Shoot,” Doc says, placing her glass down on the table. A stray drop stains the papers covering the table and Baby can’t help but sneak a peek. There is a diagram of a building much larger than this one, with at least four floors. He sees the word OUZO upside-down but can’t begin to parse it. Rather than punishing him for looking, Doc lifts her glass again and stacks it on top of another glass, freeing up more room on the plans. “You ready to up the ante and go out with us on some real jobs?”

Baby shifts, awkward. He thinks about Darling falling to the ground in a pool of blood. He thinks about one of the murderers he met in prison. “Wasn’t today real?”

“Sure,” Doc says, shrugging. Stealing money orders from a post office had been the cause of old Doc’s death, but it’s apparent that Darcy considers it only another Thursday. “That your question?”

“No.” He heaves in a nervous breath, and then asks all at once, “Why didn’t you get mad at me today? For… for waiting for the music, uh, for waiting to leave? You didn’t say a word about it even though we waited a good forty seconds just so I could change the song.”

Baby hasn’t been inside a church since he was six years old, and so he’s got no idea how to confess his sins. But he thinks it must feel like this: bringing up something bad you’ve done without being asked, just so that you can have permission to do it again. He can’t stop remembering Bats yelling at him to move.

Doc smiles, but it doesn’t reach her mouth. Only her eyes seem to grow brighter. “Same reason I didn’t get mad at you for bitching out Kim in the middle of a chase. You kept driving the whole time, and you got us away without even a single car on our tail. You weren’t even thinking about it— at some points I swear you were more invested in the music than the getaway.”

“Sorry?” offers Baby, confused.

“Don’t be.” Doc stands, and then takes her place by the chalkboard. Baby doesn’t let his gaze flicker away for a second. “You didn’t need to worry about driving, because you’re flawless behind the wheel of a car. It’s what you were born to do. Do you want my opinion, Baby?”

“Sure,” he echoes her.

“Stick with what you’re good at.” Doc reaches for an eraser, wiping away plans from the job today. The single swipe obliterates entire street names and addresses, and Baby wishes he could forget the details of jobs that easily. “Maybe there’s a reason you’re good at it.

Iris would be mad if she knew, but that’s the advice that sticks with him all the way home.

 

 

He’s on the phone with Debora one day when he hears something he doesn’t understand. None of these things are particularly unusual at a first glance: Baby has started to get more confident displaying emotion around his new crew than he ever had with the old ones, since he knows that he won’t have to dump these people’s bodies— hopefully. That seems like something that Doc would do herself if anything were to go wrong.

Debora is busy chatting about her new job that she says makes her medium-happy. Previously, Baby has questioned her on this qualification, with medium-satisfactory results. Debora’s explanation of medium-happy is that her life isn’t quite perfect, but she doesn’t have a problem getting out of bed in the morning most days and she’s entitled to all the free coffee she wants. She’s got a roof over her head and she dog-sits on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so medium-happy it is, and what has Baby been up to?

“Good,” stammers Baby, which is not an answer to her question at all. “Fine. I’m medium-good, at least.”

If Debora finds his reply awkward she doesn’t acknowledge it, and neither does anyone else who might be listening in on the call. In fact, everyone’s attention is pretty well occupied by Doc at the moment, who is elaborating on some sort of plan. She hasn’t instructed Baby to pay attention, nor has she turned off the obnoxious punk music blasting through Kim’s speakers. Baby figures he isn’t expected to listen in, but naturally not being invited to the conversation only makes him want to participate more.

He tries to listen as best he can but the equation of his bad hearing plus Kim’s shitty music plus Debora’s voice in his ear adds up to Baby not being able to hear any more than fragments. He catches Doc saying to Vern “one of our own in there instead” but can’t figure out what it means. Baby realizes, bemused, that he isn’t even recording this.

After the meeting, Vern and Kim and the other crew member with curly black hair whose name Baby hasn’t caught yet all shuffle away, and Baby makes a beeline for Doc. Before he can say anything she reaches forward and grabs one of the photos on the table, flipping it over and hiding it. All Baby manages to see is an unfamiliar person with blood seeping out of their head, and it only adds to his confusion. It’s clear that this isn’t like the situation with her glass where Doc had encouraged curiosity. For some reason she’s hiding this from him. Doc smiles and it doesn’t show in her eyes at all this time. “How’s Debbie?”

“Debora’s good,” Baby corrects her. He keeps his voice as polite as he can, fist clenching around his phone in his pocket. “Did I miss anything?”

“Nah,” Doc says. Her fake smile is still plastered to her face. “You free to drive me somewhere tonight?”

 

 

When Doc’s GPS tells them in a friendly, automated voice that in two hundred metres they will have arrived, Baby starts to wonder if he’s going to die tonight.

He’s lost count of the number of times he’s asked Doc if this is an important job, so he figures it’s a good idea to ask her once more, just to make sure. Doc’s eyes roll upwards, and then she points at a dark alley that looks too narrow to fit her car. “Pull around through here. As I told you the last eight times, I would have briefed you if this was important. Did I make you do anything for the post office, Baby?”

Fortunately the narrow space doesn’t rob them of any side mirrors, and Baby sees a light at the end where the alley leads to a lot behind the building. He’s never driven on this side of town before, which is saying something. Very few places in or around this city are unfamiliar to him. “No.” _You made me drive_ is on the tip of his tongue, but he stays quiet.

“Exactly,” Doc says, pleased. They pull into the lot and Baby parks in a spot that Doc directs him to, hands trembling on the wheel. He looks over and sees her fully-stocked utility belt peeking out from under her leather jacket. He can only hope that none of those weapons are going to be used on him. “Doc always said you were nothing like your dad, so I guess I don’t know why I expected anything different.” Baby doesn’t reply. His knuckles have gone white. “Tonight, you’re just my chauffeur.”

That is a partial explanation as to why they’re in her car instead of a stolen ride that would be easier to dump afterwards. They sit in silence for two minutes as Baby waits for Doc to get out, and he’s on the verge of getting out to walk around and open her door for her when someone walks out of the building. Nobody he recognizes, so Baby figures it must be a client— until the two nobodies walk up to the car and open both doors to the back at once. Baby instantly realizes he’s got plans he didn’t sign up for, and that Doc lied to him.

He wonders why he ever thought working for Doc would be different.

He has limited options here: he could get out of the car now, but he can see Doc’s Taser out of the corner of his eye. He doubts she’d have any reservations about using it on a deserter. Baby wonders if Iris would even protect him if he showed up bloodied at her door, begging for refuge. She’d probably just be disappointed.

So he does what he’s good at, and he drives. Baby drives Doc and the two strangers to a secret location, which he only knows is secret because they have to pass through two gates to get in. Baby wonders if it’s a government building, which would be very bad, or a police building, which would be worse. He steadies his hands on the wheel and keeps quiet as Doc leans over him to reach out the window and press a fake ID card to a machine. Blue Monday is playing so quietly on his headphones that only he can hear it, but as they all wait for the machine to verify Doc’s false identity, Baby thinks that the whole state must be able to hear his music.

Finally a light turns green and they’re through the first gate, and then they pull up to the second gate, where an exhausted man is reading a book that Baby can’t spot the cover of. He looks at their car, and then at them, and his eyes narrow. “You one of ours, or are you Kingsman?”

“Kingsman,” Doc answers without hesitation. She leans close to Baby, reaching for her belt, and says “Close your eyes, Baby.” She doesn’t have to tell him twice.

“ _Tell me how does it feel, when your heart grows cold, grows cold, cold_ ,” courses through Baby’s brain. He hears two gunshots, and feels the car move as something jostles it, and then opens his eyes to the gate in front of them opening. Doc is beside him in the car, and one of her silent friends is in the backseat. The tired attendant is nowhere to be seen.

Then the trunk slams shut, and Baby feels a chill run through him— he didn’t realize that it had been open. The other silent person gets in, and Baby is driving before Doc says another word to him.

One of the backseat passengers speaks up for the first time, causing Baby to jump in his seat. “What the fuck is Kingsman?”

“Hell if I know,” Doc says.

As they approach the building his heart is racing, but he drives slowly, wanting to avoid any more casualties or attention. They pull up to an unmarked loading dock populated by only a few cold crates and a sign telling them smoking is prohibited. Doc gets out of the car first, the rest of the crew following close behind. Baby stays put and stares out the windshield with wide eyes. He feels simultaneously petrified and frantic; every bone in his body is telling him to leave right now but he knows the only way out of here is with Doc beside him.

She waves at him in a childlike gesture that almost seems perverse, and then walks up a ramp towards the building. The other two join her inside, and soon Baby is alone in this unfamiliar lot. He tries to focus on his breathing but no air seems to be in the car; he rolls down his window, and finds no air outside either.

“Shit,” he mumbles, hoping it’s only a panic attack and not an epilepsy attack. He hasn’t had one of those in years, but the universe does seem to have a funny way of fucking him over. The sound of his own voice calms him, and Baby realizes no music is playing through his headphones. He reaches for his iPod only to discover that it’s dead— _like the man in the trunk_ , his brain helpfully adds.

As he starts to fiddle with the radio Baby’s attention is drawn to something out of the corner of his eye, and when he leans over to investigate he could swear his heart skips a beat. Stuck in the narrow crack between the shotgun seat and the seatback is the fake ID card Doc had used to get in. The first gate has already rattled shut but the second gate is still wide open, meaning the key to his escape is right next to him.

Stuck in an empty car with only his tinnitus for company, Baby drives himself a little crazy staring at the card. He wonders if he should take it with him and escape, but then convinces himself that that’s a terrible idea since the card is evidence. His thoughts fly to the attendant, currently decomposing in the trunk of Doc’s car.

Doc has made it crystal clear that loyalty is the only thing she values. While Baby knows how bad it would be for him to leave right now, he can’t help but think that it would serve Doc right for him to leave her behind. It would only be fair for someone like her to finally face some consequences. _Or_ , did she leave the card on the seat as a test? Will it even work?

“Fuck,” Baby says, and leans back in his seat. He wants to call Debora and ask for help but that would require a lot of exposition he simply doesn’t have time for. In a stroke of random inspiration he realizes that there’s a radio, and his hands fly to the power button.

Loud British house music starts blasting through the speakers, making the car vibrate around him. “Fuck!” Baby thinks morbidly that his passenger in the trunk isn’t hearing much of anything, but anyone else who’s lurking around would _definitely_ hear it through his open window.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He tries to roll up the window but the crank is stuck, and Baby curses again, wondering why Doc talks such a big game when she doesn’t even have automatic windows in her car.

The final straw comes a moment later when he hears muffled gunshots from somewhere inside the building, way off from the song’s rhythm. “F— you know what,” Baby says to the empty car before turning around so fast his parked car nearly drifts. “Fuck _this_.”

He drives up to the first gate and leaves the ID card on top of the machine once it flashes green, and then pulls away, leaving Doc with no getaway driver and no getaway vehicle. And it’s _her_ car, too. The wind whips in through his open window, and the music is almost too loud to bear, but Baby thrives in the volume, leaning back against the seat and leaning into the speed.

 

 

By the time he realizes where he is, he’s outside Iris’ office, window closed and radio playing much quieter. Baby gets out of Doc’s car, and then thinks better of it, climbing back in so he can forage through her glovebox for a pen and paper. He finds a pen with Darcy engraved onto it, and steals the pen but leaves the car. This is the note he ends up leaving tucked into the windshield:

**I’m sorry. I don’t look for trouble, it finds me. Please make sure he’s buried. See you someday.**

The last time the old Doc made him dump a body he walked away feeling free. This time Baby’s mind is completely empty as he leaves the car parked outside the police station. He doesn’t feel free— he doesn’t feel much of anything, except tired.

 

 

After a pit stop at his apartment, Baby gets onto the bus with a backpack full of iPods and tapes, and has to ask the bus driver for directions three times before he realizes it would be easier to sign.

He’s never taken this route before and it probably shows on his face. Or he just looks spooked thanks to everything else. Regardless, the driver takes pity on him and drops him off a full three blocks away from the stop so he doesn’t have to walk too far. Baby signs his thanks, and gets off the bus before he realizes he forgot to pay. It isn’t even close to the worst crime he’s committed in the last twenty four hours, but somehow the guilt is impossible to shove away.

He knows where he’s going but has no idea why, and even as he walks towards the diner he knows it’s a terrible idea. It looks the same as when Debora used to work there, with the absence of a friendly waitress or any cops bleeding out. Baby is pretty sure he’s banned for life but he still might try to get a cup of coffee— until he sees a recognizable face behind the counter, and he changes his mind. That waitress is definitely friends with Debora, and if there’s anyone who’ll call the cops on sight, it’s most likely her.

Baby changes course, wishing he had thought about that potential pitfall before trucking all the way out here on the bus. He supposes he just misses his best friend, and thinks that seeing Debora’s face right now would help more than coffee ever could.

Still consumed by anxiety and sadness, Baby turns around and begins his walk back to the bus station. He sees a taxi cab parked on the far side of the lot, belonging to no company that he recognizes. Maybe it’s a cabbie on his lunch break, or maybe it’s just an old car that got repurposed into someone’s life. He doesn’t know what happens to taxis when they die, but he does know what the immediate future holds for this particular taxi cab: Baby is going to take Doc’s advice and drive as far and as fast as he can. This time, he really isn’t going to take his foot off that gas pedal for the next thirty years.

As _Romeo and Juliet_ by Dire Straits fades to a close and John Denver starts to sing _Annie’s Song_ into his headphones, Baby has no idea that this is the most important car he’ll ever steal.


	2. ALONE TOGETHER

In all his life Eggsy has been to America only once before, excluding the mission that sent him to Alaska. He doesn’t count that as a mission anyway as he spent most of his time there trying on fur hats and inventing new ways to be cold. His trip to Kentucky was much more dangerous and exciting, but this time Eggsy is determined to actually experience the U.S.A. without Harry’s bad condition weighing down on him or a worried girlfriend bogging him down.

“Well, I’m glad you’re using your job as a way to deny all your problems,” the face on his phone replies, sardonic as ever. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that you’re recently divorced and that you’ve got friends who are still healing from injuries. Namely, me.”

Eggsy twists his arm out of the seatbelt so that he can flip his phone off. “Oh, piss off, Merlin, you’re fine. You’re just bitter because they gave you new legs but couldn’t put together a new head of hair.” If the comment about Tilde stings, Eggsy doesn’t let it show on his face. Coming up soon is the date that would have been their first anniversary if they’d stayed together. He can’t say he’s looking forward to it.

Merlin barks out a humorless laugh, and Eggsy adjusts his phone for a better angle. He gives his handler a cheeky smile and it is not returned. “I hope I don’t have to remind you that this isn’t going to be a fun vacation, Eggsy. I just got off the phone with Agent Whisky, and while she’s happy you’re coming, she said she wishes it wasn’t necessary at all.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eggsy says, wiping the smirk off his face. It’s always a tragedy when a fellow agent dies, especially in a case like this where nobody knows what happened. The immediate news he received is that a Statesman named Agent Ouzo died in Georgia, which is where he’s headed now via private Kingsman jet. Trying to change the subject, he asks, “How do you think the Statesmen honour their fallen agents?”

“Probably the same as we do,” Merlin says, and mimes drinking a pint the size of his head. “I’ll expect you to still be hungover when you get back.”

“Still drunk, I bet,” Eggsy says. Glancing out the window at the unfamiliar country beneath the plane, he can’t help but feel a pang of loneliness. “I wish you were coming to help me on this one, Merlin.” Champ, humble but heartbroken, asked the Kingsmen to send their finest, and all they’d been able to spare was Eggsy— everyone else was busy with their own missions.

It catches him off-guard when Merlin smiles, wiggling his eyebrows. “Aye, I bet you do. Bet you wish I’d sent a certain someone along.”

“Fuck does that mean?” Eggsy brings the phone up to his face so he can give Merlin the appropriate offended stare. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

“Oh, gotta go, another agent’s hailing me!” Merlin salutes Eggsy before leaning forward in his wheelchair to end the call.

As the screen goes black for a second Eggsy glares at Merlin’s glitching image. He exclaims, loud enough that he hopes Merlin hears, “Oi, some days I wish you’d just stayed dead!”

“Whoa there,” a Southern voice comes through the call, and the image resettles. Embarrassed heat rushes to Eggsy’s face, and he quickly pulls the phone away, panicking. Merlin hadn’t ended the call at all; maybe he’d meant to hang up, but instead he’d transferred Eggsy to speak with Tequila. Somehow Eggsy doesn’t think it was an accident. “Seems a little harsh, Galahad. What’d I do?”

From what Eggsy can see, Tequila is in the passenger seat of a Jeep speeding through a tropical forest somewhere. He’s tanned as hell in a very flattering tank top, and is smiling at the camera despite Eggsy’s threat. Eggsy clears his throat, thinking to himself that nobody should ever let Tequila wear shirts like that. He amends, “Not you, I was talking to Merlin. I think he put you through to me instead of him, I’ll reconnect you.”

“Nah, I was calling you,” Tequila says, grinning wide. “You landed yet? I wanted to make sure everything is O.K. over there in my hometown.”

“You’re not from Atlanta,” Eggsy points out, “and you’re the one in more danger right now than I am. I’m still on the plane.”

“Yeah, but _you_ don’t have a partner,” retorts Tequila, before he swings the phone over so Eggsy can see the man driving the Jeep— a Kingsman named Agent Taliesin. “Say hello to Eggsy!”

“Hello, Galahad,” Taliesin says through his teeth.

Eggsy has to restrain a laugh. Tequila can be enough of a handful on group missions; Eggsy can only imagine how it would be one-on-one. Somehow, he doesn’t pity Taliesin very much. “Hi. Yeah, it’s a little lonely over here, I wish Harry could’ve come with.”

“Being Arthur is a busy job,” Taliesin replies. It’s difficult to hear him over the sound of the Jeep’s engine and the wind whipping through their car. The shirt stretched tight over his shoulders makes Eggsy imagine that being good-looking is a secret requirement for Kingsmen. But then he remembers the last two Arthurs and dismisses the idea.

“Hey,” Tequila grabs the phone back, and moves closer in his seat to talk to Eggsy, bouncing with the harsh movement from the car. Eggsy wonders if they’re in an active chase right now. “What about Lancelot? She hasn’t called?”

“Roxy?” Now that’s a name nobody’s dared to bring up in a while. Roxy has been researching something overseas for weeks, but she won’t tell anyone what she’s doing, and hasn’t even kept in touch with anyone except Harry. Eggsy is a little hurt by the distance, but he knows she’s still feeling betrayed by what happened after her ‘death’. Roxy, unaware of the secret American spy group, had viewed Merlin and Eggsy’s absence as abandonment. She had no choice but to rebuild her life from the ground up. “No, uh, not yet. I’m worried about her.”

“Don’t worry about her, worry about yourself,” Tequila says, and Eggsy has to glance back at his phone for clarification. It’s such a level-headed statement that he would have expected it from Taliesin, not Tequila. “From what you’ve told me about Lancelot, she’s one BAMF. That’s Bad-Ass-Mother-Fucker, Taliesin,” he turns to tell his partner, who does not respond. “What do you know about what happened to Ouzo?”

Eggsy forces himself to refocus on the job at hand. Tequila and Ouzo used to work together; even if they hadn’t been friends, it’s still a loss. And the murder of a Statesman doesn’t bode well for anyone. “Merlin briefed me right before you called. Ouzo died a few days ago on a job, and so far nobody has been able to find the body or figure out who killed him. Merlin said Whisky’s kind of freaking out.”

Tequila frowns as his car takes a sharp turn around a narrow corner. “I would be too. Poor Ooze… It’s hard to believe that guy’s gone. Have you got any leads yet?”

“No,” Eggsy admits, swallowing hard. “Champ hasn’t come up with any suspects, or anything. I feel pretty fucking massively underprepared.”

“Wow,” Tequila whistles, low and long, and Eggsy’s spirits sink before he continues. “It’s alright, Eggsy. You’ve saved us all twice now; I’m confident you can do it again.”

“Twice that you know of,” Eggsy can’t help but mutter with a smile.

“Sure, alright.” Tequila smiles back. The sight does make Eggsy feel a little better; he misses Tequila a lot. He has a budding crush on the guy that’s been developing since even before he and Tilde divorced, but unfortunately, Tequila is straight. It is one of the great tragedies of Eggsy’s life. “Just promise me you’ll be safe, and stay out of trouble as best you can.”

“I never go looking for trouble,” Eggsy lies, and then laughs when Tequila gives him a disbelieving look. “Alright, alright. I’ll stay safe.” He can’t resist adding, “It’s only America, the country where everyone can have guns but nobody can use hospitals. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I’m tellin’ Champ you said that, and Kingsman and Statesman are gonna break up,” Tequila threatens, but before he can act on his threat, a gunshot whizzes over his head. This confirms Eggsy’s paranoia that he’s been in a high-stakes car chase the entire time. “Oh, fuck! Call you later, Eggsy! Bring me back a souvenir!”

 

 

Other than the bags under her eyes that are threatening to eclipse her glasses, the most notable thing that has changed about Whisky is her outfit. Eggsy can’t remember ever seeing the agent in anything other than formalwear, but her promotion to Agent Whisky has come with the apparent benefit of being able to dress down once in a while. At the moment she’s drowning in a sweater too large for her, and wearing cotton shorts emblazoned with sleeping cartoon kittens.

“I like your uniform,” Eggsy says after pulling away from the tight hug. Whisky’s stronger than she looks. “I wish Harry would let me wear fun stuff like that. It’s exhausting to dress Saville Row all the time.”

Whisky levels him with a look that would make anyone cower. “These are my pajamas, not my uniform.” It is the most serious way in all recorded human history that anyone has ever said pajamas. After a beat, she shoots him a soft smile. “But thanks. I’m glad Kingsman sent you, Eggsy. The situation has been pretty dire over here.”

Her eyes look exhausted and dark behind her glasses so Eggsy hugs her again. Whisky grips his shoulder, clearly grateful. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he mutters. He can almost hear Merlin over the comm chiding him for showing emotion or grief, but right now Eggsy thinks what Whisky needs is a friend, not a fellow agent. “Were you close?”

“We’re all close,” Whisky shrugs. She looks more resolute when Eggsy pulls away from her this time, and she reaches up to adjust her glasses on her nose. “But, yeah, Matteo and I were good friends. He was a good man, and a _really_ good spy. If we can find the son of a bitch that took him down, I want to make them regret it.”

“That’s the plan,” says an unfamiliar voice, and Eggsy peers over Whisky’s shoulder to see the source. Standing a few feet away is a man who seems to fill up the whole hallway; he’s at least six feet tall, and he’s got curly hair that looks matted under the harsh white light of the Statesman base. He isn’t in pajama shorts, but he offers them a smile anyway. The smile is pleasant as an iridescent oil slick.

Whisky turns around, and her tense shoulders sink down in partial relief. “You’re up too?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” the tall man replies, and then crosses around her to offer Eggsy a _massive_ hand. A S-shaped scar is carved into his face, crossing his brow, nose, and jaw. “It’s okay, means I get to meet the new arrival. You’re the one who’s supposed to get us outta this mess, right?”

“That’d be me,” Eggsy nods, uncertain. “Agent Galahad. And you are?”

“Agent Ouzo.” The words hang in the air for a brief moment before sadness flickers in the man’s eyes. He clarifies, “The _new_ Agent Ouzo.”

Before Eggsy can ask for an explanation, Whisky offers one. “This is Luca; he’s Matteo’s brother. After Matteo was killed, Luca contacted him and we intercepted the calls, and then we found a ton of files on Luca and brought him in to ask him about taking over his brother’s role in Statesman.”

“You passed those tests quick,” Eggsy comments to Luca, whose smile disappears in favour of an earnest sorrowful frown.

“I wanted to help in any way I could.” He lowers his eyes to look at the ground to hide his sorrowful gaze, and Eggsy squints in suspicion. Something about Luca seems off. “Matty was my only family left, so I guess now I don’t have anyone. He always talked ’bout Statesman like he was really making a difference, so it just seemed right to pick up his mantle.”

Eggsy glances over at Whisky for corroboration, but Luca’s story distracts her. She nods tearfully, patting his shoulder. Eggsy’s frown wrinkles. “So I guess that means you two knew each other before all this?”

“No,” Whisky says, shaking her head. “Ouzo never mentioned his family, Luca just showed up exactly when we needed him.”

That seems especially off-kilter to Eggsy and he opens his mouth to say as much when Ouzo interrupts, frown turning into a smirk. “Matter of fact, the only Statesman agent I really knew other than my brother was Agent Tequila.”

Eggsy can’t help it— he can see that Ouzo is trying to change the subject, but he falls for the barb. He rocks back on his heels, crossing his arms. “Is that right?”

“I knew the guy way before he went by Tequila, so it was a bit of a shocker to find out we’re coworkers again,” Ouzo says, smug smile spreading from ear to ear. “Believe me, Whisky, if you knew what I knew about that guy, I don’t know if you’d let him run around the world with the most expensive tech you’ve got.”

“Tequila doesn’t even know what our most expensive tech is,” Whisky scoffs, ignoring any slight against Tequila’s character. She mouths ‘space’ silently to Eggsy; he makes a mental note to bring _that_ up the next time he talks to Merlin.

“That don’t surprise me,” Ouzo replies. His gaze doesn’t leave Eggsy. “That guy always was kind of a dumbass. And now I hear he’s wandering around the world with your agency, huh, Agent Galahad?” Eggsy nods, because there’s no point denying what Ouzo already knows, and something fizzles out in the other man’s expression. “Remind me to ask you more about that later,” he mumbles.

Eggsy decides he doesn’t much like this guy. “I’m just here to help find out what happened to your brother,” he says, meeting Ouzo’s eye contact head-on. “Can we start now by going over the details of Ouzo’s last job?”

“I think that can wait until the morning,” Whisky says, reaching up to rub the side of her neck. She stifles a yawn, and Ouzo nods in agreement. He looks grateful she brought up how late it is.

Still recovering from his flight, Eggsy doesn’t feel any particular jet-lag yet but he nods too. He lets Whisky show him to where he’ll be staying, and she gives him a hug at the door to his room. Ouzo doesn’t initiate any contact, which seems equally fortunate and suspicious. Instead he tips his chin in a polite salute. “See you tomorrow, Galahad.”

Once Ouzo is out of earshot, Eggsy taps the side of his glasses to make a note to himself. He types out with his gaze, _LUCA = SHADY BASTARD_. Whisky must see his pupils darting around, or perhaps she sees the way he watches Ouzo walk away. She reaches out to touch his shoulder again. “Eggsy, thank you again for coming. This whole thing has been a total shitshow.”

“Course,” Eggsy replies, trying to focus on his friend. He musters a smile, dismissing his paranoia for the moment. “You’d do the same for Kingsman.”

“Obviously. The next time one of you gets shot in the head, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She tucks her short hair behind her ears before removing her glasses, and then gently tugs the bridge of her nose. It’s a rare but recognizable motion; Eggsy has seen Merlin this exhausted only a handful of times. Whisky must be going through hell. “Sleep well.”

He does sleep well, for about two hours. They’re far enough from the heart of Atlanta that the only noise Eggsy can hear through his window is the quiet Georgian countryside. He shoots Roxy a quick text; nothing memorable, only a sappy wish for her to resurface coupled with a cliché about America.

His brain finally gives him a break and he dreams of people that aren’t in his life anymore, through choice or something worse. It’s not unusual for Kingsmen to suffer through dreams like this; Harry wrote the book on trauma and PTSD affecting the mind. But Eggsy’s nightmares have always been more personal than he’d like. In a lucky twist of fate, he doesn’t remember any of the details of the nightmare when he wakes up.

Unfortunately, that’s because he’s waking up into another nightmare.

Amateurs or civilians might mistake the sound of gunfire for fireworks or something less dangerous, but Eggsy’s training was too good. He wakes up in a sweat but doesn’t panic; he’s been through a hundred situations like this, both real and simulated. The first thing he does is reach for his glasses at the bedside table, and slam them onto his face.

“—an hear me, you’d better get your ass out of there, Galahad! _Eggsy_! Wake the _fuck up_!” The shouting is almost deafening, and Eggsy reaches up to turn on his mic as he gets out of bed. Merlin loses his cool over the comm more than he probably should, but rarely to this level.

“I’m here, I’m here, Merlin!” He grabs his weapons and his suit jacket, not bothering to change the rest of his clothes. As he slides into his poison-equipped shoes, Eggsy focuses on his heart-rate. He inventories everything he owns as fast as he can. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Someone broke into the base,” Merlin briefs him at record time. “They’re armed, and they’re coming towards your room. You need to get out of there, _now_.”

Eggsy does not have to be told twice. He waits for Merlin to give him the all-clear and then opens the door to his room, umbrella ready in case of any stray bullets. No one is in the hallway, but after only a second someone fires more gunshots in a nearby corridor. He doesn’t stick around to see who’s shooting, instead opting to run. He dismisses Merlin’s suggestion that he arm himself in favour of booking it to the nearest stairwell.

“That’s fine, what do I know,” Merlin grumbles as Eggsy jumps over the railing to high-tail it down the stairs. “I’ve only been in this business for decades longer than you have, don’t mind me.”

The panic in Merlin’s voice is gone, and in its place is breathless snarkiness. That can only mean that the situation is improving, so Eggsy allows himself a moment to catch his breath. “Where’s Agent Whisky?” he demands, hand leaning against a cold cement wall.

“She’s not responding to me, but her vital signs are fine,” Merlin says after a beat. “Want me to hack her feed?”

Eggsy opens his mouth to say something about Ouzo, and then remembers Whisky’s faith in the agent. Whoever broke into the base hadn’t come to attack Whisky; they’d come for him. “No. Keep an eye on her, but get me out of here.”

As if on cue, a gunshot fires from above him, followed by a loud whooping noise. The voice scares Eggsy more than the shot, and he goes back to running and jumping down the stairs until he can kick open the door to the parking lot. He fires a small ball of rubber at the door that lands and starts to spread, chemicals working quickly to glue the door shut.

“That won’t stop them for long,” Merlin says. His snarkiness is back to being an annoyance, so Eggsy ignores him as he dashes towards a Statesman cab and jumps in. He can’t turn the key in the ignition fast enough, and as he starts to drive away a loud bang catches his attention.

Eggsy glances in the rearview mirror to see his pursuers following him, running away from a cloud of smoke and what used to be a door. “Huh, guess they have guns _and_ fireworks,” he thinks aloud, but doesn’t stick around to question it, flooring it out of the parking lot instead.

The inner gate to the base is open, which is eerie and discomfiting. Eggsy’s heart stutters when he realizes the parking attendant he saw on his way in is gone. “Do you know what happened to him?” he asks Merlin, because omnipotence is Merlin’s job.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, _drive_ ,” Merlin says. Like he ever stopped driving. As he pulls up to the locked outer gate, he discovers a key card with a false ID left on top of the machine. Eggsy holds the card up until the gate opens, and then tosses it into the glovebox for Merlin to examine later. “I guess someone is looking out for you, Galahad.”

“You mean other than you?” He pulls away from the base, and only once he’s on the highway does Eggsy begin to comprehend the situation he’s in. He starts worrying about Whisky and all the other Statesmen staff on that base. His inclination towards martyrdom makes it hard to remind himself that they’re all proficient spies like him. And anyway, Merlin had said her vital signs were okay.

Even with that small comfort, the feeling of alarm doesn’t quite leave him. It sinks in more and more as he looks down at his bare hands on the wheel. Eggsy looks at himself in the mirror; he’s still wearing a grey pajama shirt and pants underneath his suit jacket. He’s driving in a city he knows next to nothing about, in a country that has given him terrible memories. His reflection looks small. “Merlin,” he starts, cutting the silence short. “Can you put the cab on auto-pilot to go somewhere safe?”

“Don’t know what’s going to be safer than a secure spy base, but aye,” Merlin replies. They fall into silence again. Right as Eggsy’s preparing to take his foot off the gas and hands off the wheel, Merlin lets out a colourful swear. “For some reason, it’s not letting me in.”

“Come _on_ , Merlin,” Eggsy grouses. “Thought you were the best tech guy in the world.”

“That may be true, but you’re not using _my_ tech,” Merlin says. “You’re in a Statesman car, so it’s connected to their system, and their maps. Wait a sec, I’ll get one of their handlers to take over.”

“No,” Eggsy interrupts before he can help it. He wishes he could trust the Statesmen, but right now the only thing he knows is that someone broke into their secure base. That could have been an inside job, and right now the reasons why he doesn’t trust the Statesmen outnumber why he does. “I’ll go it alone.”

“Alright,” Merlin replies, unconvinced. “Just try to remember to stick to the right side of the road, not the left.”

“Ha-ha.” Eggsy tries to relax, forcing his shoulders to lower and trying to work out some of the tension in his back. Unsurprisingly it doesn’t work. Merlin falls silent with only the occasional direction as to where he should turn, and Eggsy starts to lose track of where he is.

It’s hard to navigate a city he doesn’t know on the advice of someone who doesn’t live there; more than once Merlin tells him to turn too soon or merge into the wrong lane. Merlin swears as Eggsy cuts someone off, and Eggsy scoffs, waving a hand to the car behind him. “They’re fine, Merlin.”

“No, not them.” The sense of impending danger in his tone makes Eggsy tense up again right away. “There’s a red sedan that’s been following you through the last three stoplights.”

“Fuck.” Eggsy checks the mirror, and sure enough he sees a flash of red as a distant car pulls into his lane. “ _Fuck_! How’d they find me?”

“Hard to say,” Loud, frantic typing in the background interrupts Merlin, and then he hums thoughtfully. “They might have followed you all the way from the base; you don’t exactly blend in.”

“You’re telling me Stateside Taxi isn’t a real company?” A truck blocking his view turns off the highway, and then the red sedan is only one car away. The racing of Eggsy’s heart becomes impossible to ignore. “Okay, fuck it, I’m not running anymore.”

He takes the next exit regardless of Merlin’s protests, and his pursuers follow. It’s impossible to see who the driver is this late at night, but Eggsy doesn’t care— he’s done being chased. He’s a Kingsman. He can hold his own against some American pricks. The first building that catches his eye is a hospital; or rather, a multistory parking lot beside the hospital.

Eggsy turns into the lot, driving up onto a walkway to avoid the toll barrier. The red car lacks his grace and manners, and opts instead to drive straight through the arm blocking off the parking lot. Eggsy makes sure there’s no cars in front of him before leaning out his window to fire three quick shots at the red car.

Whether he actually breaks their windshield or does any further damage is unclear. But Eggsy achieves his main goal: the sedan swerves to avoid his shot, giving him an opening to get away.

As he speeds up onto another level Merlin swears, using a word Eggsy hasn’t heard since grade school. “I got into the cameras for this hospital and you’ve got more company on route, Eggsy. Another car just entered the garage— no, make that two. How many of these fuckers are there?”

“There’s about to be a few less,” Eggsy says, pulling his car to a stop. He gets out and stays as quiet as he can, firearm ready and safety off. After that, all he can do is wait for the fight to begin. He crouches behind his car, peering out in the direction of the entrance. Then three things happen at once.

One: Eggsy’s shoulder explodes with pain. The agony is so sudden and distracting that he registers the pain of the gunshot before the noise. Then he registers the appearance of the person standing in front of him.

Two: Merlin shouts in his ear, “Watch yourself, Eggsy, there’s someone else—” but Eggsy is too busy watching his glasses fall off his face as he’s knocked back by the shot. Whatever Merlin says next is lost as the glasses hit the cement and shatter. Eggsy also hits the cement and shatters, or at least it feels like he has.

Three: Eggsy realizes this isn’t going to be a fight. It’s an ambush: a trap he drove right into.

The man who shot him has bright white hair standing straight up from his scalp. Eggsy can barely see it through his paralyzing pain as he forces himself to stand. He gets back into his car in a daze, unable to look at the man whose scalp is blazing white.

He can hear the faint sound of more gunshots over the ringing in his ears, but thankfully none of them land. One breaks his side mirror but Eggsy doesn’t waste a second mourning it. He presses his good hand to his shoulder and his foot to the gas, and in an instant blood soaks his hand red as he reverses over the source of the gunshot.

He doesn’t waste time wondering who tried to kill him, or who he just killed. Eggsy pulls out of the garage, chest pounding with pain. The red sedan doesn’t follow him out which is a good sign; maybe he ran over someone important and stopped the chase altogether. He doesn’t let his guard down, checking behind him every few seconds for more pursuers.

It’s only when he pulls up to a red light in the middle of downtown Atlanta that Eggsy realizes he’s gone into shock. He reaches for the remnants of the glasses he’d thrown into the passenger seat, shoving them onto his face as best he can. The metal frame digs into his cheek but Eggsy doesn’t care, using his only functional hand to hold the glasses up. “Merlin,” he pleads, voice choked up with pain. “Where do I go?”

There’s no response.

“Merlin,” Eggsy repeats. The light stays red. Nobody responds. Only one of his arms seems to be working, his left one hanging limp at his side. His shoulder is pulsing with pain, and Eggsy realizes he needs to do something about his injury. He reaches into the glove compartment for the first aid kit in every Kingsman car. He only finds the fake ID he’d thrown there earlier.

He has no connection to Kingsman, no backup, and he broke his glasses. He’s also starting to distantly suspect that he might be in serious danger of losing too much blood. Moisture running down his face prompts him to look in the mirror in case his eyes have started bleeding or something— but as Eggsy looks at his reflection he sees himself crying. He thinks he may have started crying the second he got in his car.

“I can’t do this,” he says, even though the microphone on his glasses is undeniably broken. Harry would know what to do. Tequila would know where to go. Eggsy doesn’t know anything; he feels as useless as when he’d watched Harry die. Only this time, he’s the one bleeding out in America, and nobody is watching him on camera. “I don’t know where I am, or where I should be.”

This time the only reply he gets is a loud honk from the car behind him, and Eggsy realizes the light’s turned green. He drives through the intersection before pulling over, and his good hand parks the car at the side of the road.

The thing about the end of one’s rope is that you never know how close you are to it until you’ve reached the very end, making the metaphor unrealistic. There was no way he could have prepared for waking up to gunshots. There was no way he could have known he was driving into a trap. Eggsy is at the end of his rope, and it is not a pleasant realization for him to arrive at. He grits his teeth, and then reclines his seat, trying to pull himself together.

The first thing he does is take off his bloodsoaked jacket, which takes longer than he’d like on account of the lack of feeling on one side of his body. Once he’s holding the expensive jacket between his knees it’s easy enough to cut part of the fabric off, and much, much harder to fashion it into a tourniquet. He gingerly touches the back of his shoulder, looking for an exit wound, but can’t find any.

Sure enough when he rips off his ruined shirt, he finds the bullet lodged in his shoulder. Eggsy knows better than to take it out, and instead wraps the fabric tight around his shoulder and arm as best he can. He can’t say it makes his injury hurt any less, but at least he can start to take back some control over his situation. Fixing himself up is something he knows how to do.

A car slows down as they pass him. While Eggsy assumes it’s because they’re wondering why a half-naked cab driver is bleeding to death, the sight sets off his paranoia. He remembers his potential pursuers and reluctantly starts driving again, despite having no idea where he’s going.

The first place that catches his eye is a nondescript diner taken straight out of an American picture book. Eggsy hasn’t set foot in a diner since his visit to Poppy’s Diner, and he can’t say he’s excited about going back. A gas station might be better, but the diner looks pleasant and innocuous enough. The searing pain in Eggsy’s shoulder has started to die down a little, bringing him some peace of mind. With the sudden mental clarity comes a reminder that Merlin is definitely losing his shit somewhere, and that contacting Kingsman is his top priority.

Eggsy tosses his bloody pajama shirt into the backseat, along with his broken glasses, and then prepares himself to enter the diner. If they call the cops, they call the cops; at least then Eggsy would have a safe hideout for a while. Jail sounds preferable to goons hunting him down in an unfamiliar city. He leans back in his seat and steels himself to leave the car, but right as he grabs the handle, the passenger door swings open.

A man climbs into his car— although, _man_ might be a little generous. He looks more like a teenager, or rather he’s dressed like a teenager. The young man is wearing headphones and looks as surprised as Eggsy feels. The wide eyes are probably due to Eggsy’s state, but Eggsy doesn’t give that reaction any attention. His sole focus is on the hand concealed in the stranger’s pocket. He does _not_ feel like getting shot twice in one night. “Get out of the fuckin’ car,” the stranger says, voice a low Georgian drawl.

“I’d rather not,” Eggsy replies, narrowing his eyes and slamming his good hand into a button on the dashboard. The door slams shut, almost taking off the stranger’s leg in the process. All the locks click down into their doors and his would-be mugger twists his head to stare at them in confusion. Then he pulls on the handle, giving Eggsy the idea that this guy isn’t the brightest of the bunch.

That’s the best news Eggsy’s heard all night, so he raises his watch to the man’s neck, preparing an amnesiac dart. “How about instead, you tell me who the _fuck_ you’re working for, and I don’t blow your head up. How does that sound?”

“Wait, wait,” the stranger pleads, raising his hands in instant surrender. He looks terrified, and the sight slows Eggsy down even though it shouldn’t. “Don’t shoot me, please, I— I’m not working for anyone.”

“Bollocks,” Eggsy says, pressing his fingers into the guy’s neck. He can feel his pulse quicken as he looks more and more scared. “I know this country is a hellhole, but there’s no way I get a gun pointed at me twice in one hour and it’s not connected.”

“I don’t have a gun,” the man interrupts, and when Eggsy stares down at his pocket realization dawns across his face. He guiltily reaches into his pocket to retrieve an iPod connected to his headphones. “Don’t like guns. I wasn’t trying to shoot you, promise. I just needed a ride.”

“A ri—” Eggsy stares at the stranger, gobsmacked. He pulls his hand away from the man’s neck, mostly so he can return it to his shoulder to press down on his wound. If he wasn’t already in agonizing pain, he’d swear he’s developing a migraine. “You’re telling me you have nothing to do with any of this, and you’re just a plain old car thief?”

“I’m not a car thief, I’m a driver.” He sounds defensive, adding, “I mean, I haven’t stolen a car in years.” Eggsy fixes him with a look of disbelief, and he amends his statement: “I haven’t stolen a car for _myself_ in years.”

Eggsy sighs, and leans his neck back as best he can. The stranger continues to stare at his shoulder, gaze pinned to the wound. Eggsy can feel his pulse race, and assumes it’s because of the loss of blood. He wants to tell this guy to mind his business but they seem to have passed that point. “Why are you trying to steal my car?”

“Told you, I needed a ride.” There is nothing suspicious about the way he says it. Eggsy finds himself almost wishing this guy was more untoward. There is a small scar on his cheek but it has fully healed, making the expression of alarm on his face the most distressing thing about him. He hasn’t taken his headphones out this whole conversation; he doesn’t look like a mugger, just a lost student.

Right as Eggsy’s about to tell him to hit the road, a loud shot interrupts their conversation. Both of them jump as screams erupt from inside the diner. The stranger ducks in his seat but Eggsy swallows and reaches for the gearshift, switching into drive as fast as he can. “Which way is the airport?” he demands.

His passenger looks at him like Eggsy is the crazy guy who tried to steal a car. “What?”

“Do you know how to get to the airport from here?” They’re already pulling away from the diner onto the highway. Eggsy can see the source of the gunshot follow them; this time the car on their tail is a tacky shade of blue.

“Uh, yeah,” the stranger says, turning in his seat to look back at the diner. He stays quiet, and it’s almost unnerving. Eggsy is so used to Merlin and Tequila matching his level of talkativeness on missions that the silence is overpowering. He can’t take it anymore but then, right as he opens his mouth to ask a question, the stranger turns to look at him. “Someone shot you?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy breathes out instead of his question. “Ugly bastard with white hair.”

His passenger stays silent and sits very still, and only when they’re coming up to an exit does he finally speak up. “Tattoos? Turn here.”

“What?” Eggsy turns onto the exit, and they are narrowly followed by the blue car. There haven’t been any more gunshots, but they still have a tail; if Eggsy had to guess, he’d say the morning traffic is keeping them safe for now. “Yeah, he had some ugly face tattoos. Do you know him?”

Looking concerned about the answer, the passenger nods. Eggsy slams his good hand on the wheel and wishes he could aim a gun while driving, but he’s only got one working hand. The stranger shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “What the hell?” demands Eggsy. “I thought you said you didn’t work for anyone?”

“I don’t,” the stranger mumbles, but then under Eggsy’s glare he corrects himself. “I quit last night.”

He doesn’t say anything more, and Eggsy slams the wheel again, feeling confused and angry. A car behind him honks, probably because he was veering off the road, and Eggsy quickly rights his path. His passenger tenses again. “Tell me who you worked for,” Eggsy grits out, “right fucking now.”

“Let me drive,” the stranger says, sounding determined for the first time. Eggsy doesn’t bother to hide his offense. “I’ll get us to the airport safe and I’ll tell you everything. I can get us there if you trust me.”

“I absolutely do not trust you,” Eggsy shakes his head. He accelerates to slide left around an industrial truck which honks in response, and he doesn’t bother waving to them. International traffic laws aren’t as important while in a chase; he glances behind them to check for the blue car. “What’s wrong with my driving?”

“One of your arms is limp,” the passenger points out, which is fair, “and you’re British,” which is _wildly unfair_. “I’m good at driving, I swear.”

“I don’t care,” Eggsy starts to say. He is awkwardly interrupted by pain shooting up his arm, and he drifts off mid-word, gasping. His passenger’s eyes seem pinned to his chest. Usually anyone this handsome ogling him would be a flattering compliment, but right now he can’t feel anything except pain.

He pulls over as soon as he can, shaking his head. “Fine,” he relents, unlocking the doors. “Only because you’re the best lead I have.”

Before Eggsy can struggle with trying to open his door, his passenger jumps out of the car. Eggsy watches, expecting him to run away; but to his surprise, his mugger-turned-hostage jumps over the hood of the car like he’s done it a hundred times before. He comes around to open Eggsy’s door for him.

“Thanks,” Eggsy mutters awkwardly, swinging out of the car to get to his feet. Vehicles race by on the highway beside them and the noise is almost too loud to bear. Eggsy is all too aware how easy a target they are right now, pulled over like this. But nobody shoots at him as he slides into the shotgun seat, and Eggsy finally remembers to breathe. He closes the door and stares at his new driver, who has finally taken his headphones off in favour of fumbling with the radio dial. “How does drive first and talk later sound?”

A loud rock song starts: one that Eggsy has never heard before, but it brings a smile to his driver’s face. It’s the first time Eggsy has seen him smile, and he finds he’s unable to tear his gaze away. “Sounds perfect,” the stranger says, and he pulls back onto the highway right as the singer starts wailing.

He can’t imagine Merlin will be proud of him for letting a criminal take the wheel, but Eggsy still feels comfortable with his decision as they speed through the streets of Atlanta. Also the stranger is maybe a better driver than he is, as painful as that is to admit. It’s obvious that he knows the city like the back of his hand, and Eggsy finds himself watching those hands as they hold the wheel like he’s driven this car all his life.

Eggsy realizes he has zoned out watching the other man, so he holds his shoulder tighter to ground himself. Unfortunately, pressing down on your own gunshot wound is the least pleasant way for anyone to touch themselves. He yanks his hand away only for another spurt of blood to come out, accompanied by a pained groan. Eggsy is seriously beginning to wonder how much blood is left in his body, because he doesn’t think the answer is a lot.

His driver stays silent as Eggsy moans in agony, and stays silent as they turn a corner so sharp Eggsy winces. The only thing Eggsy sees him say is silent: he curiously watches the stranger’s lips move as he mumbles something to himself. The realization dawns on Eggsy that he’s lip-syncing to the song. Before Eggsy can stop himself, he breaks their silence. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

The driver shrugs. It’s a confirmation and a refusal to answer at once, and Eggsy is both intrigued and annoyed. “What’s your name?”

For a long moment Eggsy doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer at all. Then when the name passes his lips, he doesn’t believe what he’s heard. “Baby,” the stranger says, low and private. His drawl makes the endearment sound like how Tequila would say it.

“That’s your name?” Eggsy stares at this criminal, dumbstruck. “ _Baby_?”

“B-A-B-Y, Baby,” says Baby, and for the first time since they switched places, he looks over at Eggsy. “What’s your name?”

Eggsy considers answering _Agent Galahad, to you_ but for some reason he finds himself wanting to be honest. “Eggsy.” Baby doesn’t break his stare, so Eggsy feels compelled to add, “Eggs with a Y, Eggsy.”

Baby laughs— short and genuine, and it surprises both of them. He swerves into another lane at the very last second. “Never heard that one before.”

“I’ve never heard Baby before,” Eggsy says, which, obviously. “How long have you been driving?”

Apparently Baby’s brief stint of talkativeness has drawn to a close, since the smile slides off his face and he turns back to look at the road. “Keep pressure on that,” he answers without looking over at Eggsy. “We’re almost there.”

Eggsy is starting to wonder if they should be driving to a hospital instead, or trying to pick out the bullet and clean his shoulder. But instead of voicing his concerns he does as Baby says and reapplies pressure to his wound. He winces in pain, but Baby doesn’t look over. After some time he stops trying to get Baby’s attention and sinks down in his seat, wishing he could sleep. That’s probably his brain telling him he’s close to death, but Eggsy doesn’t feel very worried— which is probably his brain trying not to freak out about death.

Just as he’s about to ask Baby to change course, he sees a sign fly by labelled Hartsfield-Jackson, and Eggsy straightens up. “No, not here,” he says as Baby pulls towards the arrivals level of the airport. He tugs his bloody hand away to point at a much smaller sign. “Loading docks. That’s where we’re going.”

To his credit, Baby doesn’t question the suspicious change of direction; he just follows the signs and Eggsy’s instruction until they pull up to a private warehouse. It’s the same one Eggsy left last night, and he’s pretty sure they’ve lost their tail. Even if they haven’t, he’s hopeful that their tail doesn’t have a private jet.

Baby parks the car and they sit together awkwardly, as Baby is lost and Eggsy is torn. Finally, Eggsy breaks the silence. “Can I just ask… why? Why’d you drive me here?” Before Baby can answer, he continues to ramble, “I’m out of my head right now. You could have crashed the car and made it look like an accident, or escaped. You could have made your getaway.”

He doesn’t think Baby is going to reply at all, but Baby looks confused by the question. He then answers with a question of his own, “Why would I do that? You didn’t do anything to me.”

It’s possible that Eggsy has spent so long around bad guys he’s become unaccustomed to the people that are neutral. The ones who might have done bad things or helped bad people but aren’t intrinsically _bad_. He looks away from Baby, unable to think about it for too long.

Baby turns the car off, handing Eggsy the keys. His hand is trembling. “Just leave ’em,” Eggsy shrugs, taking off his seatbelt. “We’re getting a new ride.”

Baby gets out of the car at record time again. Eggsy remembers to be suspicious of this would-be car thief who knows how to get out of a car faster than a crashed Formula 1 driver. But Baby doesn’t run away; he just dashes around the hood so that he can open Eggsy’s door for him. Eggsy stares up at him in confusion and gratitude. “Thanks,” he elects to say, instead of telling Baby off for being a gentleman.

He gets out of the car slowly and cautiously, judging whether he can stand on his own two feet. Grabbing his ruined jacket and glasses from the backseat, Eggsy walks over ( _slowly_ ) to the door to the warehouse. Baby follows at a small distance, clearly wondering what the fuck is going on. As he’s done a thousand times before, Eggsy smiles for the retinal scanner, and then speaks his name into the hidden mic: “Galahad.”

The door to the warehouse stays shut, because it’s not a real door. But the warehouse itself opens up like a garage; Baby jumps as the wall starts to rattle and then lifts up to reveal a clear path onto the runway. Standing in the open building is their getaway vehicle— a white Kingsman jet branded with only its number, fully fueled and ready to go.

It’s clear that Baby is awestruck, but Eggsy feels struck with guilt. His stomach is churning and he doesn’t think it’s just from the blood loss. Baby has complied with everything he’s asked for, but he never asked if Baby would like to know about some international secret agencies. It could be dangerous— no, strike that, it _will_ be dangerous to bring him back to Kingsman, even if he is the best lead Eggsy’s got. Eggsy can already see the look on Harry’s face.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Eggsy talks before he knows what he’s going to say. “I’ll let you go in exchange for information. You can take that car, and drive as fast away as you can. You don’t have to get involved in this whole mess. Just… tell me who broke into the base, and then go.”

But to his surprise, Baby doesn’t immediately confess everything. He shifts between his feet, nervous and awkward. “I don’t know where I would even go. I’m on parole, I’m not supposed to be in trouble like this. I, uh… I’m not supposed to leave the state.”

As the gears in his mind start to turn, Eggsy gnaws his lip, deep in thought. “I work with an organization that might be able to help your case,” he says carefully, and Baby’s face lights up. It’s the most hopeful he’s seen the guy so far, and Eggsy feels something deep in his chest. It’s not the bullet, which means he’s in deep shit. He realizes there’s a smile forming on his face, and quickly swallows it down.

Tequila _did_ tell him to bring back a souvenir. Eggsy supposes that stealing this American criminal will have to suffice.

“Well, hope you know how to fly this thing,” Eggsy exclaims, turning back to face the jet. Baby looks at him in horror. “What? If you can drive a car, you can fly a plane, right?” He waits for Baby to start to react before he says, “Just kidding, bruv. There’s a pilot and crew and shit.”

 

 

As it turns out, the pilot and crew and shit are less than happy to see Eggsy. They usher him onto the jet right away and they all pay very little attention to Baby. Before Eggsy can do so much as give his guest a tour of the plane, someone hooks him up to an oxygen mask and IV. As one of the flight attendants who had been _much_ quieter on his last flight starts to shout at him for making his own “shitty garbage tourniquet” and putting his life at risk, Eggsy starts to slip in and out of consciousness.

When he returns to the world of the living, the flight crew is nowhere to be seen, and he’s lying on a reclined seat, still hooked up to an IV. “Don’t take that out,” are the first words he hears, and it takes Baby a moment to remember the owner of the soft Georgian dialect.

When he does remember, he turns his head and smiles at his mugger-turned-hostage-turned-driver-turned-bedside nurse, who looks embarrassed to have said anything at all. Baby is wearing headphones once more.

“That’s what she told me,” Baby mumbles, and then does his best English accent. “Tell him not to rip it out!”

His accent is atrocious, but Eggsy doesn’t comment. He carefully examines the IV before looking back at Baby. “Is that what you think I sound like?”

“No,” Baby mutters. His face is pink, and Eggsy wonders how long Baby has been sitting at his bedside. It’s a touching thought, but maybe Baby just felt awkward and didn’t know anyone else. The plane is definitely mid-flight, if the soft engine noise tells him anything. Eggsy would be lying if he said he wasn’t glad to get away from America. “She also said you’d want these.”

In his hand are a brand new pair of Cutler and Gross glasses, easily distinguishable from any other frames by the two silver dots beside each lens and by the extensive tech hidden within. Eggsy reaches for the glasses, gratefully nodding to Baby, and then puts them on.

The new interface is a little jarring, but it takes Eggsy only a few seconds to rearrange everything how he likes it. Roxy used to tease him for preferring the older layout, but he thinks it makes important commands easier to access. Baby watches his eyes with interest and settles in the seat beside him, gaze pinned to him as usual.

Once Eggsy has organized everything (read: calmed his nerves down enough that he thinks he’ll sound professional) he presses the button to call Harry. Harry picks up the call almost instantly. The plane around Eggsy transforms into the familiar Kingsman table, and the first person Eggsy lays eyes on is Harry.

The second is Champagne, and Eggsy’s distrust returns to him with the force of a freight train. He hadn’t intended to debrief Harry on a conference call with Statesmen, given what had happened. Eggsy panics, and just as he’s about to hail Harry on a private line, he sees who’s sitting next to Champ.

“Whisky,” Eggsy breathes, glad to see her in spite of everything. Motley bruises and scrapes cover her face and she’s sporting an ugly black eye behind her glasses, but she looks glad to see Eggsy alive. “What the fuck happened?”

“And here I thought you were gonna tell us,” Champ sighs.

“Are you okay?” Whisky ignores her boss completely, expression tense with guilt. Before he can answer, she apologizes in earnest, “Eggsy, I am so sorry. I promise, I had no idea what was happening.”

“Do you now?” Eggsy asks cautiously. “Have any idea what’s happening, that is?”

“Yes and no,” Harry replies, taking control of the conversation again. “The only intel that Merlin and Whisky have been able to gain is that the man who called himself Luca was a traitor.”

“How does something like that happen?” Eggsy butts in, and everyone turns to the head of Statesman.

Champ has the decency to look ashamed. “The Statesman who joined our ranks, Agent Ouzo, used a false identity to bypass our testing system. It’s likely that he tortured the _real_ agent Ouzo, Matteo, into divulging the information about his brother. I apologize, Galahad. Your visit wasn’t supposed to end so soon.”

“Yeah, well, forgive me for understaying my welcome,” Eggsy huffs. “I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and so when Merlin told me to get moving, I did.” Merlin’s hologram flickers into existence next to Harry, looking only a little more stressed than usual. “I barely made it away safe, and I’ve got this nastiness to show for it.” He stretches out his shoulder, unsure whether they’ll be able to see his injury on camera. The movement hurts a _lot_ , and Eggsy exhales quickly, sitting back in his chair.

“I understand,” Champagne says. Across from him and Whisky is Tequila, who Eggsy is surprised could even make it. Tequila looks more worried than any of them, and doesn’t give Eggsy a smile or any recognition past a terse nod. At his side is Taliesin, who is taking notes or possibly just reading. His disinterest is strangely reassuring; a grim reminder that in their business, danger like this is par for the course. “I hope this doesn’t make you think any less of Statesman, Galahad, but this was a grave oversight on our part. To have lost two agents in one week is practically unheard of.”

Eggsy frowns. “Two?”

Whisky blinks quickly as she answers, “Agent Sambuca was at the base last night, and he was killed in the attack as well. Believe me, Galahad, we’re all trying to piece together what the… _hell_ is going on right now. I don’t blame you for leaving.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Eggsy rattles off, wondering how many times he’s going to have to mourn fellow agents.

But Champ shakes his head. “Sambuca knew what he was getting into; he died protecting Statesman secrets. And Whisky fought the rest of those motherfuckers off on her own.” It’s a harsher word than Harry would usually permit during debriefings, but nobody responds to the profanity. Eggsy thinks he sees the edge of Merlin’s mouth twitch. “As you can imagine, Statesman is having some trouble figuring out what to do now. We’re going to regroup at our base and re-evaluate the situation before Kingsman sends anyone else over.”

“And drink,” Whisky adds, ignoring the look Champ gives her after she says it. “Lord, are we gonna drink.”

“I think we could all use a stiff drink,” Merlin speaks up. His eyes are pinned to Eggsy. “Agent Galahad, can I ask you how exactly you managed to get to the airport with a bullet in your shoulder while ignoring your handler?”

“Easy,” Eggsy shrugs with his good shoulder. “I wasn’t ignoring you, Merlin, my glasses broke.”

“And you couldn’t find a secure Statesman location,” Merlin nags. “A police station. A payphone.”

Before Eggsy can defend his own honour, Tequila speaks up. “He doesn’t know any of the Statesman secure locations, because he ain’t a Statesman. That and he was never properly briefed on the city he’d be working in.”

“Somehow I don’t think _not_ giving away intel is our problem right now, Tequila,” Champ says. Tequila glares at his boss for a moment, and then shrinks down into his seat, averting his gaze.

“If it helps,” Eggsy starts, and all eyes fall on him, “I might know who they’re coming for next. For some reason, Ouzo knew about Agent Tequila; he made a special point of mentioning him to me. There’s a chance you’re next on their list, Tequila.”

“Good,” Tequila says, looking thrilled by the prospects. “I’d like to see that motherfucker try and find me.”

“ _He_ won’t be finding anybody,” Whisky hints, far more cryptic than usual. She and Tequila exchange a conspiratorial glance, and then she grins and Tequila mirrors it.

Merlin opens his mouth, undoubtedly to scold Eggsy for something else, and Harry turns to him and says something the microphones don’t pick up. Then Harry turns back to Eggsy, face blessedly clear of any frustration. “We’re glad you made it out of there, Galahad. You had both agencies worried for a while there, until I received a rather frantic call from one of our pilots.”

“Like I said, it was easy. It took me a while to lose my tail, but I had one hell of a driver.” Technically it’s the truth, even if everyone thinks he’s just bragging.

Harry starts to reply but then there’s a noise from outside the call; Baby starts to say something. Eggsy quickly lowers his glasses and motions for Baby to be quiet, but it’s too late; when he glances back at the call it’s clear everyone heard the noise over the comm. Harry’s good eye has narrowed into a squint, and he demands, “Galahad, who is that?”

“Prisoner of war, explain later,” Eggsy replies, and before everyone can react he quickly hangs up.

When he takes off his glasses to properly see Baby, he expects to see him shameful or embarrassed like before. Instead, Baby is looking a little worse for wear, and Eggsy feels a pang of guilt mixed with curiosity. “Are you alright?”

Baby, quiet and succinct as always, sucks the side of his cheek in before answering. “I’ve never been on a plane before.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says stupidly, and then folds his glasses and puts them in his pocket. It takes a moment before he notices he’s dressed in new clothes. He wonders when that happened and if Baby sat at his bedside for that part too. “If it’s any consolation, you’re doing fantastic. It’s hard to fuck up air travel when you’re not the one flying.”

It isn’t a very funny joke, and Baby doesn’t laugh. “I guess,” he says, something tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How’d you just talk with your glasses?”

Eggsy remembers his first time seeing Kingsman technology; every time he has a beer with Harry he still gets overtaken by that same awe and wonder. He remembers the bartender slumping over after Harry’s wristwatch had sent a dart to him, and remembers the way Harry’s umbrella had deflected everything that Dean’s shitty friends threw at it. If he’s honest, it still awes him sometimes when Merlin shows him new tech, or when Roxy does something he hadn’t thought possible.

Kingsman stretches the boundaries for what’s possible every day, and Eggsy realizes it must be a bit of a culture shock to someone who’s never even been on a plane before. “I’ll show you later,” he replies to Baby, who lets a flicker of disappointment cross his face. “I promise. Ki— the organization I work for has lots of things like this. It’s wicked. Wait ’til you see what I can do in a suit.”

It occurs to Eggsy that that last sentence could definitely count as flirting, but he doesn’t regret it the way he should. Baby doesn’t seem to mind, just staring at Eggsy like he can’t quite take him all in. “You were talking about things that made no sense,” he starts, obviously reluctant to speak at all. “You said _agent_. And Merlin. And lots of alcohol.”

“I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Eggsy exhales, thinking about that confidentiality-or-death agreement Merlin had threatened them with during training. Surely that doesn’t apply if you’re an agent, right? “Merlin is… uh, he’s a man who tells me where to go, and what to do.”

Baby doesn’t blink. “Your boss.”

“No,” Eggsy laughs at the thought. “He’s my handler, _um_ … we call him Merlin like the wizard because he’s a tech wizard, I guess. I’m… sort of… a spy.”

There is a beat where Eggsy wonders if he’s going to have to explain the concept of secret agencies to Baby because he seems a little slow on the uptake for everything else. He wonders if he could trick Baby into thinking he’s the real James Bond. But then, Baby leans his head against the seat, and shifts to turn his body more towards Eggsy. “You’re Kingsman.”

That is _not_ the answer Eggsy expected. There is a small circle of people in this world that know that word, let alone what it means; most of them are either Kingsmen, Statesmen, or dead. He frowns at Baby, trying to figure out if he’d dropped the word on his conference call, but he doesn’t think he did. When no explanation is immediately offered, he moves closer. “How do you know that?”

“Something I heard.” Eggsy doesn’t respond, silently demanding that Baby explain further, and after a prolonged moment Baby sighs. He reaches into the pocket of his sweater that doesn’t hold his iPod and retrieves a small tape recorder. Eggsy freaks out the appropriate amount that a secret agent should freak out upon seeing a criminal pull out a recording device. “Here.”

Baby rewinds through the tape, plugging his headphones into it to listen until he’s reached the right point. He hands it to Eggsy, and at first the audio is unclear. Eggsy thinks he hears a song faintly playing, and the sound of a car driving, but it’s hard to make out anything particular. A screeching sound plays, like a gate swinging open, and Eggsy shakes his head. “What exactly am I supposed to be listening—”

“ _Wait_ ,” Baby tells him, and rewinds the recorder. The gate swings open again and the distant music continues, and then the car grinds to a slow stop. Eggsy hears nervous breathing as the tires crunch the gravel underneath them.

Finally a voice comes onto the recording, although it’s distant. Eggsy doesn’t hear it clearly the first time, so Baby rewinds again. It’s an unfamiliar male voice, American. _“Are you one of us, or are you Kingsman?”_

 _“Kingsman_ ,” a different voice on the recording replies. It’s a woman, and her voice grows louder suddenly, like she leans in. “ _Close your eyes, Baby_.”

The real life Baby does not close his eyes but he winces and reaches to pause the recording, and Eggsy pulls it out of reach. A moment later he regrets doing so as two loud gunshots echo through the tiny speaker. A sudden exhaustion overtakes Baby, and he reaches to pause the recording again. This time Eggsy lets him do so without protest.

“The pilot asked who I was, and that was all I could think to say,” Baby says, which explains a little more about how he knew Eggsy was a Kingsman but doesn’t explain the ominous recording. “It’s a good thing, right? You’re a good spy?”

Eggsy wants to interrogate Baby right now about the recording but there’s an earnest and desperate edge to Baby’s questions, as if he’s begging Eggsy to be one of the good guys. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about what he just played. Eggsy remembers the first thing he learned about Baby; he doesn’t like guns.

So instead of asking Baby any of the number of questions he has, Eggsy settles back in his seat, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I’m a good spy. I’m a Kingsman. We save the world, but no one is supposed to know about it.”

Picking up on his meaning, Baby flushes suddenly. It only makes him look prettier. “If it helps, I don’t think the pilot believed me.”

Eggsy smiles despite himself and then ducks his head so Baby can’t see it. He’s never taken a hostage for questioning before, but he’s pretty sure he isn’t supposed to find them charming. He makes a mental note to look up reverse Stockholm syndrome.

Baby is still holding onto his recorder in his pocket, and Eggsy wonders exactly how much pained groaning Baby has on that thing. “Can I listen to what you’ve recorded?” Baby balks, and Eggsy quickly adds, “It’s just, we’re not _really_ supposed to be on any sort of record, even if it’s only your personal one. Promise I won’t delete anything unless it’s critically sensitive.”

It’s obvious that Baby doesn’t want to give up the recorder, but after a moment of deliberation he hands it over. His surrender comes with a request: “Can I use your phone?”

Eggsy’s gut reaction is to make a joke about airplane mode, but of course Baby’s never been on an airplane before. Then he remembers that he left his phone on the bedside table back in Georgia, eagerly awaiting a reply from Roxy. “Here,” he says, exchanging the recorder for the glasses in his pocket. “You can make a call through these; just go to apps and press the telephone icon. It should connect you to anyone in the world so long as you know their number.”

“Sure,” Baby mutters, looking a little stymied. He puts the glasses on and then blinks, looking at Eggsy in a whole new light.

Eggsy restrains himself from saying his first thought, which is that Baby looks ridiculously cute in glasses. His second thought is “Please don’t call my boss,” which he pleads with a smile.

Baby’s eyes are flicking around through the different settings, and it takes a moment before he focuses on Eggsy again. He clarifies, “Merlin.”

“My real boss.” Eggsy rolls his eyes before quickly adding, “But _don’t_ call Merlin.”

Fortunately Baby doesn’t call Merlin, and instead dials someone else. Eggsy sees him mouthing numbers as he looks at them, but staring is rude, so he averts his eyes to the recorder in his hands. There’s probably a treasure trove of information that could take down all of Kingsman _and_ Statesman on here, and as Eggsy puts Baby’s headphones on, he prepares himself to listen to the recording that will surely be his downfall.

“Shit” loudly echoes through the headphones, followed by several “Fuck!”s and then loud music starts blasting through the speakers. Eggsy realizes it’s Dizzee Rascal and he smiles softly, turning down the volume as fast as he can. This is clearly just a recording of Baby having a crisis of some sort, and not crucial intel that will lead to the end of the world.

As he turns down the volume Eggsy can’t help but eavesdrop on Baby’s conversation, and he finds himself muting the recording without helping it. Baby is pressing the glasses into his face like the proximity is going to help whoever he’s calling pick up their phone. Eggsy should mind his own business, but instead he pretends to be deeply invested in the contents of the recorder as he listens to Baby.

The first voicemail Baby leaves is quiet, like he’s worried Eggsy is listening, and soft, like he’s speaking to someone who’s asleep. “Hey, it’s Baby,” he starts, and then chews his lip. The pensiveness adds to his beauty— almost as soon as Eggsy has that thought, he’s embarrassed by it. “When you get this, call me. I know things are going well for you, and I don’t wanna drag you down, but there’s some things I need to tell you. Just… call me.”

It takes Baby a second to figure out how to hang up, and then he dials the second number, looking a little lost. This voicemail is significantly more interesting. “Hi Iris, it’s— uh, it’s me. By now you probably got the note I left you, I’m really sorry about that. I know you told me I couldn’t leave the country, but. I’m leaving the country.”

Baby looks up to meet Eggsy’s eyes, and Eggsy thinks he’s been caught eavesdropping before Baby continues, “But I can’t say why, or who I’m with. This is all very weird. I’m kind of being held hostage.”

 _That_ sets off some alarms in Eggsy’s mind, and he makes a big show of pausing the recorder’s playback and taking a headphone out. Baby quickly summarizes his situation with a quick, “But I’m fine, bye now,” and then hangs up again. He stares at Eggsy, and then takes the glasses off nervously, not sure if he’s on the hook or off. “Find anything interesting?”

“Just some loud music.” Eggsy flashes Baby a thumbs-up. “Dizzee Rascal. Nice.”

Baby looks confused by that, but he doesn’t reply. He folds up Eggsy’s glasses and hands them back, and Eggsy turns off the recorder even though he hasn’t learned a single thing. He tries to reason with himself that he could technically take the information from Baby by force any time he wanted to. But on a deeper level Eggsy knows he’s hesitant to press Baby because he’s curious to learn more about him, and he suspects that the less he pushes, the more Baby will tell him.

“You didn’t have to come,” Eggsy mumbles. “I wouldn’t have forced you.”

Baby doesn’t say anything in response to that, just silently offering Eggsy his glasses back. As they exchange Baby’s crappy tape recorder for Eggsy’s super-secret spy tech, the seatbelt light turns on with a loud _ding_ , and Baby grabs Eggsy’s hands in a startled moment of confusion. Thanks to Kingsman medicine, Eggsy is already regaining feeling in his left hand and has full use of his right, but that doesn’t explain why he instinctively grabs Baby’s hands and holds them.

Baby pulls away after a moment, looking embarrassed as fuck, and they don’t speak again for several minutes. A friendly voice lets them know over the intercom that they are beginning their descent and they should secure all belongings, and an attendant comes into the cabin to carefully remove Eggsy’s IV cord. Eggsy sits up, wondering what magic they doped him up with, and only when the plane starts to really descend does he hear a soft noise of pain.

Eggsy instantly turns to Baby, and sees him clutching his ears as if they’re causing him agony. His stomach twists into knots at the sight, but he isn’t sure how to help Baby shy of reaching over to gently touch his elbow. Baby looks over at him and Eggsy asks cautiously, “What’s wrong?”

Baby simply tells him, “Tinnitus,” like that explains everything. It takes Eggsy a second to remember what that means, but once he does he’s overwhelmed with sympathy. Of course most people get _some_ ringing in their ears while they’re hurtled through the atmosphere, but for someone with tinnitus, it must be especially painful.

Neither of them say anything else, and Eggsy puts on his glasses, doing some quick research on Baby’s condition. Tinnitus would explain the constant music and headphones, although he’s not sure whether it actually helps or hinders Baby. It can happen after some concussions, but for a more severe case like Baby’s, there would have to have been an accident.

The thought crosses Eggsy’s mind to look up young men from Atlanta currently out on parole, possibly with past offences including things like grand theft auto, but he looks over at Baby holding the sides of his head, and finds he doesn’t have it in him to do research. That’ll come later.

When the plane’s wheels finally bump into the ground as they land Baby lets out an audible sigh of relief, and Eggsy tries to hide his own relief.

 

 

“I have a question,” Baby speaks up for the first time in hours.

Eggsy turns around and shushes him for two reasons. The first is that he’s trying to break a lock with little success and it’s only going to be harder if Baby distracts him. The second is that he’s trying to break a lock and discretion is key. He thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that Tequila might have laughed at that joke.

Baby stays silent while Eggsy manages to crack the code and twists the lock off, throwing it to the floor. They’re standing at one of the few back doors to Kingsman, inside a room too chrome to be called a foyer. Technically Eggsy isn’t even supposed to know about this entrance, but one time he and Roxy stayed out past curfew and rather than chancing a run-in with Arthur they’d snuck in through this door. When they had rebuilt the entire building, someone had left this backdoor in the exact same spot.

He holds the door for Baby and Baby walks through it, looking as uncertain about breaking into a spy base as he should look. “What’s your question,” Eggsy whispers, and Baby yanks one headphone out so he can hear him properly.

“I thought—” Eggsy gestures madly for Baby to quiet down, and he acquiesces, lowering his voice to the same volume. “I thought you lived here, why are we breaking in?”

“Great question,” Eggsy grunts, and then motions for Baby to follow him. Baby does, walking cautiously behind him and looking back every few steps. Eggsy leads them to an elevator that goes to the dormitories, and then holds the door once more.

Baby steps inside, looking around with obvious suspicion and fear. Eggsy can’t say he blames him; this is nothing like the secret train that had brought _him_ to Kingsman. “I don’t live here,” he clarifies, leaning his injured side against the elevator railing. Baby watches him and mimics the movement, leaning against the other side. What a pair they make. “I live closer to London, with my boss.”

“You live with your boss?”

Remembering to press a button, Eggsy nods. “He’s more like my mentor, but yeah.” The elevator starts to race upwards, and Eggsy remembers his first elevator ride with Harry. “He was the one that brought me into Kingsman; he knew my dad.”

Baby stays silent after that, and when they reach their floor he makes to get out first but Eggsy leads the way nervously. He doesn’t think anyone will be lurking around these parts, but once they get to the agent suites, there’s a chance someone could be sleeping there and wake up to hear them. He takes advantage of the empty dorms to continue, “And we’re breaking in because as of right now, no one knows you’re here. I thought I’d give you a while to settle in before…”

 _Before Harry interrogates you_ is the real answer, but not the one Eggsy wants to give. The truth is that he’s counting down the seconds until he tells Harry and Merlin what happened, and he can’t imagine they’ll be too happy about him bringing a suspect into the headquarters. But he can’t help it; he doesn’t think Baby is guilty for what happened to the Statesmen, and he’s pretty sure he can get the story out of him if they just spend some time alone. Eggsy would much rather approach Harry with a solved case than with a hostage and a pile of questions.

Baby doesn’t prompt Eggsy to go on, so he doesn’t, just drifting off into silence. They walk out of the dormitories and down the hall where all Kingsmen have a room. Eggsy stops outside the room labelled ‘ _GALAHAD_ ’ and tries the door. Thankfully, he left it unlocked; he can’t imagine asking Merlin for a spare key at this hour.

The next noise comes from neither Baby nor Eggsy but it startles them both; the second Eggsy pushes the door open, a loud bark echoes from the room. Baby takes a nervous step back, but once Eggsy realizes the source of the noise he is instantly relieved.

“JB, what are you doing here?” Eggsy rushes forward to pet his beloved second dog, rubbing behind his ears and making silly faces down at him. Baby stays by the door, charmed but confused. “Come pet him if you like.”

After a look back at the hall, Baby does so, kneeling beside Eggsy and showing the dog affection. JB instantly takes to him, licking his palms and headbutting his knee affectionately. Baby looks over at Eggsy, smiling gently. “He lives here?”

“Nah, he lives with me. Harry’s been watching him, so Harry must be here,” Eggsy says with a smile of his own, which quickly disappears once he thinks about that statement. “Right. Harry must be here.” He gathers JB into his arms and returns to stand by the door.

“Galahad.” The word catches Eggsy off-guard. He turns on his heel, looking back at Baby, who is slowly standing up. “That’s you.”

“That’s me,” Eggsy repeats uncertainly, and gives Baby what he hopes is a charming grin.

Baby doesn’t look charmed. “If this is your room, why don’t you just stay here?”

There isn’t enough time to sit Baby down and explain everything that happened with Harry, and how Eggsy had felt too grown to move back in with his mother and sister but too young to find a place of his own. Harry’s vacant apartment had seemed the easiest place to live, especially since it felt cathartic to be near the possessions of his dead mentor.

When it was revealed that Harry was very much alive Eggsy had vacated the house to honeymoon with Tilde for a while, but life in Stockholm didn’t suit him. He returned to England and to Kingsman, but quickly discovered he felt more comfortable living off-site. There is an awkward tension every time he sees Roxy these days, and the easiest way to avoid that is not staying down the hall from her.

“It’s a long story,” Eggsy finally concludes, ignoring the disappointed look Baby tries to hide. He takes a step back, opening his mouth to say that he’ll come back first thing in the morning.

To his dismay, Baby follows Eggsy out of the room. “Oh, no, um—” His hand that isn’t holding JB lands on Baby’s chest, and he quickly pulls it away, stammering, “I, uh, there’s a bathroom in there, and a change of clothes if you want. There’s a fridge with some alcohol and shit too, but you… ah… you can’t really leave.”

Baby’s eyes bug out, and his lip twitches. “What?”

“Not forever! Just… you have to stay here for a while, at least until I’ve explained everything to everyone.” Eggsy winces at the thought of how badly he’s probably going to get punished for this. “It’s a secret base, and all, so… yeah.”

He watches Baby’s eyes flick down the hall, and then back into the room. “You told me you might be able to help me,” Baby says, starting to freak out. “Not _hide_ me.”

“I will help you,” Eggsy promises, and then when Baby doesn’t react, “I _swear_. I just… I need the night. I promise in the morning I’ll introduce you to H—Arthur, and to Merlin, and everyone else. I know this all probably seems like a mad dream, but I _promise_. I’ll help you, but you have to trust me.”

The fall and rise of Baby’s chest is growing quicker, not slowing. “What if someone finds me here?” he demands.

Baby looks like a scared kid, and Eggsy feels a rush of pity. He re-enters the room, and waits for Baby to walk back in before closing the door. Baby’s eyes stay fixed on him as he locks it, and as he crosses the room to the wardrobe. He grabs a pair of old sweatpants for himself, and then finds a clean set of pajamas. “Here,” he tosses them to Baby. “I’ll be right back.”

Instead of leaving for his real house like he badly, badly wants to do, Eggsy puts JB down and absconds to his bathroom. He closes the door but doesn’t lock it, running his hands over his face and staring at himself in the mirror helplessly. He looks…

Fucking exhausted, and battered, and did he mention _exhausted_. His wound is bandaged up but still hurts like a bitch, and there’s an ugly bruise on his face that he doesn’t remember obtaining. “I really fucked up on this one,” Eggsy mutters to his reflection. He rinses off his face, trying to think of a way he can ensure that Baby stays put while he goes back to his home for the night. No matter how Eggsy phrases it in his head, he can’t think of a way that it’ll work.

When he’s done changing he opens the door to his room slowly, and is pleasantly surprised to see that Baby hasn’t run off. The American is reclining on Eggsy’s bed, sinking into the soft mattress as he pets JB. He looks tired too, but there is a tender smile on his face.

That smile disappears the second Eggsy steps into the room, and Baby looks up at him expectantly. Eggsy has an instant realization that he doesn’t much enjoy, and he doesn’t think his hostage will like it much either. He has to stay here with Baby for a while, at least until he learns the hang of things.

Baby watches him walk in the direction of the door and then sink down onto the couch instead. Eggsy pulls a comforter over his body with his good arm, and instantly a wave of exhaustion washes over him. He. Is. So. Tired. Baby stares at him from the bed, jaw hanging open in apparent relief. He doesn’t bring up the question of Eggsy leaving, instead opting to get up to use the bathroom himself. JB whines at his departure.

It’s a miracle that Eggsy doesn’t fall asleep, and he’s just fighting off the tendrils of unconsciousness when Baby reappears, wearing the pajamas that Eggsy hasn’t put on since his training days. He gets back into Eggsy’s bed, and they make an awkward, sleepy moment of eye contact as Eggsy wonders if Baby is going to escape and Baby wonders if Eggsy is going to join him in bed.

Eggsy caves first, pain and fatigue pressing his eyes closed. “You’ll tell me everything in the morning, right?” he asks Baby without looking over. “Everything that might help?”

“Okay,” Baby replies haltingly. “Can I meet more spies?”

“Uh,” Eggsy cracks one eye open. Baby’s eyes are closed, and he lies curled around the soft dog. It looks like he’s already fallen asleep. “I… alright. But promise me you’ll tell me about those people you worked with.”

“Promise,” Baby echoes him, almost a whisper. Eggsy feels like Harry would demand for Baby to sign a contract or something, but Eggsy has never had to grill a kidnapped hostage for information before, so he supposes this will have to suffice.

Even though he’s so exhausted he feels like his body is atrophying, Eggsy stays awake and watches Baby until his breathing evens out and he falls asleep. He wants to make a joke about a cradle, but there’s no one there to make it to. His last lucid thought is that Tequila would laugh, probably.

 

 

When Eggsy wakes up, the morning sun is streaming in through his window, JB is licking his knee, and Baby is gone.

The ramifications of this sink in slowly as Eggsy remembers that Baby is a criminal he snuck overseas without a passport, and then gradually Eggsy remembers that Baby is the only lead he’s got on his case, and then rapidly Eggsy remembers that Baby knows about Kingsman and knows who he is and _Baby is gone_.

“Shit,” he rolls off the couch he’s sleeping on, causing JB to flop onto the ground with a dramatic yelp. Panic starts to race through Eggsy’s veins. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect or prepare for this; he hadn’t even turned on the surveillance cameras in this room. Eggsy curses himself for trusting the soft boy with headphones so fast, and rockets to his feet, ignoring his bad shoulder. “ _Shit_.”

His bathroom is empty too, with a toothbrush dangling on the sink’s edge. No one is in the shower, or in the kitchen, or in the hallway when he runs out there to check. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eggsy chants, like it’s somehow going to reverse his mistake. He runs back into his room, ignoring his dog’s barking.

Two minutes later he’s dressed in casual wear, a big no-no for Kingsmen but something that Eggsy could give less of a fuck about right now. He dashes to the stairs and jumps down them three at a time to head to Arthur’s office, where he prays Harry will be in a good mood.

Preparing himself to kick open the door and say, “Harry, I fucked up,” Eggsy rolls his good shoulder and cracks his neck. But then, he kicks open the door and the words die on his lips.

Harry is sitting in his usual armchair, drinking his usual morning cup of tea, but he isn’t alone. Sitting across from him is Baby, who is holding a mug of coffee in both hands but nearly drops it at the sound of the door slamming open. Baby whips around to look at Eggsy as Harry’s eyes pin him in place, and Eggsy knows he’s in deep, deep shit. He starts to croak out, “Harry—”

“Good morning, Eggsy,” Harry says calmly. There is not a trace of anger to be found in his tone, and Eggsy breathes out anxiously. Shockingly, he doesn’t look upset at all. He’s wearing a warm-looking red robe, and Baby is also wrapped up in a matching white robe. The edge of an amused smile is on Harry’s face. “Glad to have you back home.”

“I can explain,” Eggsy rasps, holding onto the doorknob like a lifeline.

“There’s no need.” Harry turns his smile onto Baby, and then raises an eyebrow. “Miles here has just given us our newest lead.” He stops, and then corrects himself: “ _Baby_ , not Miles. Baby has given us a dozen new leads. _Baby_ has solved our case.”


	3. LIABILITY

_VIRGO. AUGUST 23 to SEPTEMBER 22. VENUS being opposite your sign right now may lead to new connections, of varying priority. Remember, LUST is only SKIN-DEEP, but LOVE sinks into your MARROW to take hold. Love is the only thing that is BONE-DEEP. Your lucky numbers are 3, 29, 144_.

Lancelot could think of a few other things that reach her marrow. The first that comes to mind is betrayal. She knows that she’s almost a parody of herself right now, a walking cliché: brooding even while on international sabbatical. But try as she might she can’t seem to stop her thoughts from drifting towards betrayal. She feels inescapably bitter, as if she’s gone rotten and there is no hope to return to the sweet girl she used to be. Dying tends to have that effect on you.

When Roxy died, she was alone. Of course, people have warned her of this her entire life— she couldn’t begin to count the times she’s been told everyone is alone at the end. But hearing that depressing thought from pessimists is radically different from having it proven true.

She went underground, literally— searching secret bases and ruined tailor shops for any familiar faces. For days, Roxy spoke to no one; she healed her own wounds, and mourned her friends alone. She grieved for Eggsy and for Merlin, and for the place she’d grown to call home. She didn’t know if it was safe to contact her family, or to contact anyone, so she’d stayed in isolation— until one day while exploring a base in Berlin she sprung someone else’s trap. In an unexpected twist of fate Roxy recognized her captor: a very confused but happy Amelia.

The two women lived together at that underground German base for weeks. They only finally resurfaced once it was established that Merlin and Eggsy had _not_ died. Somehow Harry had survived too, and he had reached out to her to take her place as Lancelot. Roxy acquiesced, and returned to reunite with her friends. Eggsy’s first words to her were to express that he couldn’t believe she was alive, and something about that still sits ill with her.

She isn’t alive by mistake, or by any miracle. She is alive because she saved herself, and nobody had thought to look for her, or to check for her body. That is the biggest betrayal, and in her worst moments Roxy finds herself almost angrier with Eggsy and Merlin than anyone else. Charlie had been a massive prick who turned eviller than anyone expected, but her own friends hadn’t taken the time to search for her.

Her search for them had consumed her life, and then when she’d lost hope she had continued to mourn them every day. Meanwhile her best friend let her memory disappear without a trace. Eggsy hadn’t even invited her to his wedding. She wishes she could share that with whoever wrote and published these superficial, weirdly ominous truisms disguised as horoscopes.

“How’s your coffee treating you?” The voice interrupting her crossword belongs to her waitress, and Roxy forces herself out of her bitter memories, realizing she’s been scowling at a half-empty mug for the last couple minutes. “Need a refill?”

The sour look on Roxy’s face melts away as she looks at the server, replaced by a forced but warm smile. “Please,” she says, sliding her cup towards the girl. The red and white uniform that this diner provides for its waitresses is nothing but flattering on the server, and Roxy wishes, not for the first time, that she could appreciate it fully. Even though she keeps accidentally surrounding herself with beautiful people like Eggsy and Amelia, she’s fairly sure she doesn’t experience attraction. If it hasn’t happened at this point in her life, she doesn’t envision it happening ever.

But her waitress sure is trying her best to change that, sitting down in the booth across from Roxy. Roxy wants to ask if she’s allowed to do that, but the truth is that she doesn’t mind the company one bit. The waitress is almost unfairly pretty; her smile is beautiful and her hair is up in a wavy ponytail with strands falling out on each side. Roxy thinks that if she tried that, she’d look like a hot mess; but this girl just looks hot.

“I like your accent,” the waitress tells her, already tender smile growing even softer with the words. “I think I’ve seen you in here a couple times the past few weeks. What brings you to Louisville? Work?”

Roxy is too smart to hope that this Southern girl working in a diner in Kentucky is hitting on her. “Yes,” she can’t stop herself from replying anyway, “I’m from England. I’m here doing… research.”

That’s certainly one reason why she’s here. She glances at the girl’s nametag for just a moment, and it tells Roxy what she already knew: her server is named Debora, as in Debbie, as in Miles’ girlfriend Debbie.

One of the side effects of going off the grid is that you have a lot more time on your hands, and Roxy used that time to catch up on international crime. For months she’s been reading about the case of a criminal mastermind in Atlanta named Harry who went by Doc, who died last year in a shoot-out. She’s done her research on the case, but she isn’t convinced that Doc’s web of criminals has been extinguished, and there have been an influx of recent crimes that could _easily_ be attributed to the man. Roxy has seen enough people come back from the dead in her life that she wouldn’t put it past Doc to have somehow lived.

She’s spent a lot of time watching footage of people testifying against Doc, and on one particular night Roxy had fallen down the rabbit hole of learning about Doc’s favourite driver, a man named Miles who went by Baby. There’s something grotesquely interesting and sad about the case, like learning about the details of a car accident. Baby’s life has been tragic, but the more Roxy learns about him, the more she convinces herself that Baby knows something about Doc he isn’t sharing with the world.

Unfortunately, Baby is still incarcerated for his crimes, so Roxy tracked down the next best source; Baby’s girlfriend, a woman named Debbie. The waitress sitting in front of her. Roxy feels a rush of excitement, even though she knows that Harry and Merlin would both be disappointed in her for undertaking this mission on her own. She can’t bring herself to care. Dying had changed her irreparably, and now she’s determined to do things on her own. The first step for that is helping Kingsman how _she_ wants to, not how _Merlin_ wants her to.

Debbie pours dubiously fresh coffee into Roxy’s mug, unaware that Roxy knows who she is. She leans on her elbow afterwards, placing the coffeepot down on the linoleum table. “Am I allowed to ask what kind of research?”

Roxy smiles, despite herself. “You’re allowed to ask whatever you’d like,” she replies, and leans forward. “Mostly I’ve been doing research on a bad man named Harry, who was reported dead last year. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that?”

Whether or not Debbie was actually party to Doc’s crimes is unknown, but she’s a suspect regardless. She shakes her head innocently, looking a little worried by Roxy’s tone. “I’m afraid not.”

“Maybe you’d know him by another alias,” Roxy muses. “Does the name Doc ring a bell?”

The change is stark, and instant; Debbie pales. Her hands lunge forward to grip the edge of the table, and she looks over at the bar where another waitress is chatting up a trucker. “Who the hell are you,” she hisses as she turns back to Roxy, “and what do you want?”

Roxy leans forward too, smiling. “I want to know who _you_ are, Debbie. How do you know Doc?”

But then Debbie surprises her, knocking the smile off her face. She looks almost sick as she whispers, “I didn’t know Doc, Baby did. But he told me some… some things. I know that calling Doc a bad man is putting it lightly.”

Disappointment courses through Roxy. “You _didn’t_ know him?”

“I only met him once,” Debbie says quickly, and then thinks back on her words. “A couple times. But I didn’t like him, if that’s what you’re asking.” She sits up in her seat, hands clenched around the table. If it wasn’t bolted to the floor, Roxy would be worried she might flip it. “Now you answer my questions, ma’am. Who the _hell_ are you, and what in the _hell_ do you want?”

“My name is Roxy, and I work for some people who are trying to take Doc down,” Roxy quickly explains. Debbie doesn’t quite deflate, but it’s a close thing; she looks relieved by the words. “I’ve been tracking movement around his old city, and I don’t think he’s really dead.”

Debbie chews her lip nervously, eyeing Roxy. “You’re a cop?”

“Course not,” Roxy nearly scoffs.

“If you’re a cop you gotta tell me, otherwise it’s entrapment.”

“That’s not a law,” Roxy says with about thirty percent confidence. It certainly isn’t a law in England. “And I’m _not_ a cop. I’m more like… a secret agent.”

Debbie stares at her with unreserved interest, and Roxy tries to ignore the rush of— _something_. Embarrassed heat, or anxiety, probably. It’s never a good thing for someone to watch her this intensely; not in her line of work. “Doc is dead,” she finally says. Resounding disappointment and relief mingle in Roxy’s chest at her words. “But I’m… to be honest with you, I’ve been worried that Baby has gotten himself into some new problems.”

“Baby?” Debbie nods, and it sets Roxy’s head spinning in confusion. “Baby’s in jail.”

“No, he’s in Atlanta,” Debbie admits nervously. “He’s… uh, we… we tried to run away together, but we couldn’t make it work. I… couldn’t make it work.”

Roxy processes in this new development as fast as she can, and then drains half her coffee in one gulp. It doesn’t feel like a coincidence at all that Baby is back on the streets, right as a new string of crimes that match Doc’s method have started. “Are you in contact with him? He knows where you are?”

“Sure,” Debbie is fiddling with her nametag nervously. “We’re best friends.”

Roxy reaches across the table to offer Debbie her hand, and she shakes it. Roxy doesn’t release her, pulling her in close. “Debbie, I’ve been watching you for a few weeks. I’m worried you might not be safe here. If you consent, I’d like to put you into witness protection. It… it would mean coming back to England with me, and I know that’s sudden, but I’m concerned that you’re in danger. Right now you’re the best lead I’ve got on this case, and I can’t lose you.”

Debbie doesn’t try to pull away, and Roxy realizes she’s probably given her the entirely wrong impression. Her face flushes with colour but she doesn’t lean back, and Debbie doesn’t lean back either. Her eyes are darting back and forth between Roxy’s. Just as Roxy is preparing for her to jump out of her seat or call the cops or scream, Debbie says, “It’s Debora.”

“Debora, then,” Roxy pulls her hand away. “Will you come with me?”

“Yes,” Debora replies, beaming.

Roxy stands up, ready to race Debora to the phone to stop her from calling the cops— but then the answer sinks in, and she sits back down. “Wait. _Really_?”

Debora reaches forward to pick up Roxy’s coffee mug, and she drinks what’s left of it. “Yeah,” she says, all soft and smiling again. “I fucking hate this job.”

Debora leads Roxy upstairs to the small room where she’s been staying above the diner. There’s a vinyl album but no record player, and a photo of her and Baby taped to the wall beside her mirror. Roxy feels a bit like she’s meeting a character from a book; it seems like a fiction that Debora is real instead of just dialogue on a court ledger or a pixellated face on a computer screen. Roxy watches her pack her clothes in record time. She remembers to grab her toothpaste as an afterthought.

Debora’s got barely enough material possessions to fill her small suitcase, excluding the waitressing uniform which she leaves on the bed. Roxy nearly wants to tell her to keep it for when she comes back, but the truth is that she doesn’t know when that’ll be or if Debora will want to return to serve the same crappy diner. Instead, she leans against the doorframe, trying to stop her eyes from wandering. She’s just… curious. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Debora says. Her azure shirt has a white Peter Pan collar that sits crisply across her neck, and underneath it hangs a necklace with a coin. “Ready.”

 

 

The journey back to England is long and it should be tedious, but Roxy feels reinvigorated. They don’t depart from the Statesman base; Roxy has never met Champagne and would feel awkward requesting to use one of his airplanes. Even if Statesman and Kingsman have formed a sister agency bond, something about working with strangers goes against Roxy’s gut. She likes Whisky and Tequila well enough, but she steers clear of their boss, instead opting to take off in the Kingsman jet she flew in on two weeks ago.

“Is it just you?” Debora asks as they pull into the private hangar. She’s wearing an old pair of sunglasses that Roxy forgot in the glovebox a lifetime ago. They’ve practically become a dashboard ornament, but on Debora they’re given a new purpose.

Roxy drives her taxi up the ramp that drops down from her plane, and only once she’s parked inside the jet does she turn to face Debora. The look of wonder on the American girl’s face brings back powerful nostalgia, reminding Roxy of the first time she’d encountered a plane like this. “No, thankfully Kingsman equipped me with a pilot and crew. I try to avoid heights when possible.”

She gets out of the car, and Debora instantly follows, walking to retrieve her luggage from the trunk. “Kingsman? Is that who you work for?” Debora inquires, clearly eager for information.

Roxy gives her a sidelong glance, but can’t find any reason to be suspicious of Debora. All that she knows right now is that Debbie hadn’t been working with Doc but she _does_ know information about him and she’s even met him. That means she’s more at risk than Roxy assumed, especially if Baby has reverted to his old ways. “Yeah,” she finally admits. If she thinks Merlin might be angry with her for her honesty, the thought only brings a small smile to her face. “I’m a Kingsman. My codename is Agent Lancelot.”

“Cool,” Debora nods, grinning back at Roxy. “Does codename mean you’re like a spy?”

“You could say that.” Roxy walks to the ladder leading out of the cargo deck and scales it without much thought. Debora leaves her worldly possessions behind with only a parting glance, following Roxy up onto the passenger deck. “Kingsman agents don’t work for any particular government or do any policing; our work is enacted secretly, under the radar so we can keep people safe without receiving accolades or other unwanted attention.”

It’s a script stolen almost entirely from Harry and Percival, but Debora doesn’t need to know that. When they emerge onto the lavishly furnished passenger deck, the pilot is nowhere to be seen. But there’s an unopened bottle of prosecco and two empty glasses that call Roxy’s name, so she walks over to sit down by them and beckons Debora to follow. “Do you drink?”

“Not often,” Debora admits. She looks thrilled by the prospect, however, and accepts a glass when Roxy pours her one. Her gaze is glued to the window as she watches the crew run around outside. They’re all wearing suits, which must look a little funny to someone unacquainted with the Kingsman tailor shop’s uniform policy. “Are you allowed to drink here?”

“On the way back from missions, sure,” Roxy says, and then straps her seatbelt on as a ping resounds through the jet. Debora looks at her in confusion and Roxy returns the look before her brain puts two and two together. Once she’s realized, she feels like a pretentious, posh idiot. “Is this your first time on a plane?”

Debora nods, looking slightly humiliated by the confession. “I’ve never been in witness protection either,” she mumbles, hands smoothing down her skirt. “Or met a spy. I mean, not that I know of. I guess there’s a chance I’ve met many spies.”

She smiles, to indicate that she was joking, and Roxy slowly returns the smile. “I’d never been on a plane before Kingsman either,” she tells Debora. It’s a true secret she’s kept close to her chest for years. “But it wasn’t long before they had me jumping out of one.”

Debora’s eyes bug out of her head as she pauses strapping herself in to stare at Roxy. “You had to jump out of a plane?”

“The Kingsman training is brutal,” Roxy says, thinking that brutal is an understatement. “It’s… rigorous. They have to know who they can trust.”

Debora takes a sip of alcohol, and then looks down at it in apparent surprise at how good it is. Roxy’s lips twitch in amusement. In her opinion, the best thing about their partnership with Statesman is the access to so much liquor. Debora fidgets for a moment, and then looks up at Roxy. “What’s going to happen to me?” There is no fear in her eyes, just curiosity.

It’s hard to imagine having this much faith in anyone, let alone someone Roxy _just_ met. Debora was ready to run away with her at the drop of a hat, and didn’t say a single word of protest as she packed up her old life into a stranger’s car and boarded a plane for the first time. She doesn’t know where she’s going, and she hasn’t even blinked at a single part of this. It’s as if she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to ask her to drop everything and come with them.

Knowing this about Debora only further convinces Roxy that she’s making the right decision; someone this trusting could and would be manipulated by someone like Doc. Roxy steeples her hands, and leans forward. “I’m going to ensure you’re safe,” she starts. “But to do that, I need you to tell me everything you know about Doc, and about Baby. Once we figure out what’s going on, I’ll escort you to wherever you want to go, and we’ll go from there. That’s as far as I’ve planned.”

Debora’s eyes are gleaming at the prospects of ‘ _wherever_ ’, but her lips are tugging downwards in a frown. “And you’ll ensure that Baby stays safe too?”

“I’ll,” Roxy starts, and then falters under Debora’s inquisitive gaze. “I’m going to find out what’s going on with him, and then… yeah, I’ll find a way to keep him safe.”

Debora reaches across the table and takes her hand in a move that startles them both, and Roxy has to force herself not to pull away. She tries to look less wary and more normal, like a regular person having their hand held by an attractive girl. “Thank you,” Debora tells her, assigning such importance to each word that Roxy can’t tear her eyes away. “Thanks, Roxy.”

“No problem,” Roxy mutters, even though she envisions that it might be.

 

 

By the time they pull up to the Kingsman headquarters Roxy is nearly sleeping at the wheel of her taxi, and Debora has actually fallen asleep next to her. Roxy has avoided watching her more than the normal amount, but when the car comes to a stop and Debora stays unconscious Roxy reaches over to touch her shoulder gently. “Debora.”

“Mmfg,” Debora replies eloquently, puckering her lips open and closed a few times before she opens her eyes. “Right. Hey.”

“Hi,” Roxy says, accidentally affecting an American accent. She quickly clears her throat, and then tries to speak again. “This is it.”

Debora turns to look out her window, and then looks back at Roxy, incredulous. Even at this late hour the Kingsman building is magnificent; Roxy remembers her first time seeing it. She’d wanted to send postcards back home to show her parents and siblings she was basically training inside a castle, but even then she’d known confidentiality was key. The renovations are still taking up most of the upper levels, but the mansion looks more similar every day. In a few years it’ll look like it never exploded.

Roxy parks her cab out front and goes to grab Debora’s suitcase, mostly because Debora looks like she might fall over if she tries to hold herself up and carry her luggage. Debora protests, but Roxy ignores her— until the front doors to Kingsman fly open to reveal a very cross Scotsman.

“Hello, Merlin,” Roxy calls out cheerfully. Merlin folds his arms over his chest, already looking pissed off. “Have you missed me?”

There is a vein bulging in Merlin’s forehead that Roxy hasn’t seen since Charlie and Eggsy got caught having a fight at three in the morning during training. He doesn’t move from where he’s standing at the door, leaning heavily on his cane. The last time Roxy saw him he had only left his wheelchair once, so seeing him moving up to other mobility aids is a good sign.

Judging by the expression on his face, Roxy feels less heartened that Merlin’s condition is improving and more concerned that he’s going to take out _her_ legs with his cane. “Missed you?” He laughs, dry and mirthless. “If it isn’t you giving me a stress ulcer, Lancelot, then it’s that bastard Galahad giving me heart palpitations. I don’t suppose you’ve heard about the trouble he’s gotten himself into this time?”

Two years ago, Roxy wouldn’t go a day without talking to Eggsy, and they’d debrief each other on all confidential missions. They were each other’s second opinions, and now Roxy hasn’t spoken to Eggsy in days. The last text she’d received from him was a week ago, when he’d sent some cliché about the American Dream. Roxy didn’t respond right away, nervous that Eggsy somehow knew where she was, and then when she did respond Eggsy never replied.

She doesn’t let it bother her, focusing instead on the positives. “No, I’ve been busy wrangling down a key witness,” Roxy says, pride shining through her words. “Could you help me set Debora here up in one of our guest rooms?”

On that cue, Debora climbs out of the car, giving Merlin a sleepy smile and a friendly wave. Merlin, never one to have been susceptible to puppy dog eyes, goes into fucking conniptions. “Have you lost your damn mind, Lancelot? We don’t have a _guest_ _room_!” He trembles with sheer rage, looking like his fury is the only thing keeping him upright. “This is a secret spy base! Everyone that is here is supposed to be here _on purpose_!”

Before Debora can say anything, Roxy marches forward to Merlin. Once she’s certain Debora’s out of earshot, she mutters angrily, “She’s in danger.”

Merlin peers over Roxy’s shoulder at Debora, who is leaning awkwardly against the car. Her jacket doesn’t look warm enough for the misty evening, and Roxy makes a mental note to get her something thicker. “Of what?” Merlin turns back to Roxy. “Of being kidnapped?”

“I didn’t kidnap her,” Roxy scoffs. She folds her arms to mirror Merlin. “She came willingly. She has information on a criminal mastermind, Merlin, I couldn’t just leave her in the States.”

Merlin squints at Roxy suddenly as all his ire seems to evaporate. “This criminal mastermind’s name wouldn’t happen to be Doc, would it?”

The world seems to fall away, and Roxy quickly tries to remember if she’s sent any of the research she’s done in the past few weeks back to Merlin. But she hasn’t; she’s kept everything confidential, determined to solve this one on her own. “How did you—”

Before she can demand answers, Merlin shakes his head. “You’d better go wake up Harry,” he instructs her. With his free hand he beckons Debora over, and she lugs her suitcase towards them. “I’ll show your hostage to her room.”

“She’s not my hostage,” Roxy insists, as Debora says meekly, “Thank you.”

Debora follows Merlin inside with a parting glance at Roxy that shows nothing but confusion on her face. Roxy catches a snippet of Merlin saying, “Debora, was it?” and then the doors close behind the pair, and she’s left standing alone on the doorstep in the cold English air.

When the rain becomes impossible to ignore, she finally bites the bullet and goes to wake up Harry.

 

 

It’s been three hours and Roxy hasn’t returned, leading Debora to begin to wonder if she’s been recruited into some sort of international cult.

The man who introduced himself as Merlin showed her the way to a room labelled ‘ _LANCELOT’_ , giving only minimal explanation of what this mansion actually is, or _where_ exactly she is. She had asked about his accent and he’d looked simultaneously pleased that she’d noticed he wasn’t from England and suspicious of the question. Merlin left promptly afterwards, telling Debora good night and walking away with a defined limp.

The bad news is that the window in the Lancelot room has been open for at least a few hours, possibly weeks. As such, there’s a puddle of water on the floor that Debora feels like she should try to clean up. When she goes into the bathroom to hunt down towels she hardly recognizes her own reflection; she hasn’t stayed up for this many consecutive hours in years. She looks tired, and lost, and confused.

The bad news is that nobody comes by her room, and when she leaves the room to investigate the hall, the floor seems to be vacant. There’s another nameplate marked PELLINORE and one marked GALAHAD, but neither door is unlocked nor does anyone appear to answer her knocks. Debora tries to remember she’s in a spy base, even though it feels like she’s in the dressing rooms for a very devoted Renaissance Faire theatre troupe. She goes back to climb into Lancelot’s bed, hoping she didn’t wake anyone important up.

The bad news is that it rains and rains, and even after she’s closed the window and created a barricade of towels by the radiator, Debora still feels restless. It never rained this much in Georgia or in Kentucky, not even in the lushest spring season imaginable. The dark sky looks like it plans on never letting up, even though the deluge only started a few hours ago. From what little land she can see illuminated by the moonlight, the rainwater is starting to fill gaps in the dirt and cement and gravel and grass until everything is level and muddy. Debora can’t see Roxy’s taxi anymore, and wonders if she parked it somewhere inside.

Debora wonders a plethora of things about Roxy, first and foremost where she’s run off to. It’s late; even if they hadn’t just flown over the Atlantic, it’d still be late. Roxy’s been living in Kentucky for at least two weeks, so she has to be experiencing _some_ jetlag. Debora wonders if Roxy was waiting for her that whole time, or if she really was doing other research. She has so many questions to ask Roxy, and even if most of them go unanswered, she still needs to ask. There’s clearly a whole world she knows nothing about, and she desperately wants to learn.

But despite all the bad news, Debora’s soul feels _light_. It’s dark outside, and she’s on an unfamiliar continent with an unfamiliar secret agent staying in an unfamiliar bed, so by all means she should feel trapped. Instead for the first time in her life Debora feels free. No one in the world knows she’s here, except the girl who helped her fly away.

As if on cue, the door opens and Roxy appears. “It’s just me,” Roxy says, accent softening the words. She looks amused by the way Debora had jumped for the knife she’d found under Roxy’s pillow, but she doesn’t comment on it, yawning instead. “Just me.”

Roxy walks forwards to collapse onto her bed, and as she does so Debora realizes with a thrill that it is _her_ bed. She knew that, of course; there’s a picture of Roxy and some boy by the bathroom mirror and the door is labelled Lancelot. But the idea of lying in Roxy’s bed takes on a whole new meaning when Roxy is lying in it beside her, tugging at the buttons of her suit jacket. “Oh, I,” Debora starts to stammer, but she can’t manage to form a sentence.

“Don’t bother,” she thinks she hears Roxy mumble into her pillow, although the words are muffled. Roxy lifts her head to add, “Merlin didn’t mention anything about a second bed?”

He had in fact mentioned the word “punishment,” but Debora isn’t certain she should tell Roxy that. “He said something about resource allocation,” Debora replies softly instead.

“Bastard.”

Debora stays under the covers as Roxy gets changed on top, and she tries to avert her eyes as best she can but she’s only human. Roxy doesn’t seem self-conscious as all as she strips down to her underwear and an undershirt, flinging her bra across the room where it lands on an empty kennel. Debora takes off her necklace and sweater and folds both delicately, placing them on the bedside table. Her own undergarments and skirt stay on, and when she peeks over her shoulder Roxy isn’t watching her change at all.

Once they’ve both settled into bed the room is dark and quiet, but Debora can’t force her brain to shut off for the night. She reaches for her jacket to grab an old iPod that Baby gave her, and puts a headphone in, letting the sound of whale calls soothe her.

Right as she’s about to go to bed, Roxy speaks, startling her a little. “There’s a new Doc.” She sounds half-asleep already. “Not supposed to tell you but whatever.”

Roxy’s words sink in slowly, but once they do, Debora sits up and shoves the blankets away. Her heart starts to race. “What?”

The girl doesn’t turn, so Debora is forced to stare at how her hair falls over the back of her shoulders. “You were right,” Roxy whispers, “about Doc being dead. But there’s someone else up to no good now.”

“Oh,” Debora says simply, unsure what else to say. Her head is spinning in sudden panic. “And Baby—”

“Baby’s safe,” Roxy interrupts, rolling over to face her. This brings their faces unbearably close, and Debora is sure she’s flushed red. She’s grateful for the darkness. “Arthur told me. Baby’s safe.”

It’s impossible to keep track of all the names whirling around her head: Arthur, Harry, Galahad, Merlin, Lancelot, Roxy, _Kingsman_. Debora shuts her eyes, nodding gratefully and trying to commit Roxy’s words to memory. _Baby’s safe. Baby’s safe. Baby’s safe._

When she opens her eyes again Roxy is asleep, lips parted as she breathes quietly. Heavy rain is still beating against the window pane, and somehow that mixture of rainfall and soft breathing send Debora to sleep before she remembers to turn her whale sounds back on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations to Nicola on their commencement! I am so, so proud of you. Also thanks are due to everyone who's reading this fic; I honestly hadn't expected any reactions and every comment is a surprise and delight. More updates en route soon!


	4. EVERYWHERE

It’s raining hard in London as it has been for a week. The rain falls like it never intends to stop doing so, ferocious in its downpour. Merlin’s favourite meteorologist, a fit man named something like Blake or Jake or Rake, has predicted more precipitation even past the end of the month. (Eggsy only knows this because Harry won’t stop grumbling under his breath about how uninformed the local weathermen are about the state of the planet every time Merlin leaves the room.)

Eggsy is never without an umbrella so the rain is no major inconvenience, but he’ll admit there’s a part of him that’s craving the warm dry weather he missed out on in Georgia. He was born and raised in England’s dreary climate so he’s been well-inundated but sometimes spring seems to drag on much longer than should be permitted. Maybe he’ll make a request to be sent on a reconnaissance mission somewhere near the equator, or maybe he can go visit Tequila and Taliesin for an undercover vacation.

At the moment no vacations or away missions of any sort are in Eggsy’s future. Merlin hasn’t sent him on any jobs this past week which he can only assume is due to his blunder on the mission. In an unexpected turn, Merlin seems to be more upset about Eggsy running a mission alone than about the American hostage he’d taken. Neither he nor Harry has said a single word to Eggsy about the dubious kidnapping of Baby, other than making it perfectly clear to Eggsy that Baby is his responsibility and that they will not be covering the cost of an extra bed.

“Fuck right off,” Eggsy had eloquently replied to that second part. “What do you expect me to do? Share my fucking bed with him?”

“He can stay at Kingsman or in our home,” Harry’s reply had been accompanied by the rise of his left eyebrow, coupled with Merlin’s right one. Sometimes Eggsy wants to lock them both into the train tracks simulation until they get their shit together and confess their feelings. “But he certainly can’t stay in my room at home, and there’s no guest room in the new house. And wherever you put him, you have to monitor him at all times.”

“I doubt Eggsy has a problem with that,” Merlin had snickered. Eggsy fantasized about putting Merlin through the train tracks just for fun.

And now here he is, seven days later, coming home from a rainy walk with JB. Technically it’s not his home, in that he doesn’t pay a cent for it and Harry’s name is on the lease. But Eggsy has always felt more at home here than anywhere else in the world; more than when he’s with his mum and sister in their new house, and more than when he lived in Stockholm with Tilde for their short-lived marriage.

He hears scratching noises before he even walks up to the door, and for an instant Eggsy’s imagination provides him with a thousand horrific scenarios. Baby, bloodied up and catatonic by the door, having been tracked down and attacked by an associate of Doc. Eggsy shouldn’t have left the house without him— he’s a proper idiot— he promised to keep Baby safe and look what he’s done—

Before his hands involuntarily set his umbrella to stun mode and he kicks open the door, Eggsy’s spiralling is interrupted by a familiar bark from behind the door. He identifies the source of the scratching as Mr. Pickle, and exhales, lowering his umbrella. JB jumps up towards the door, eagerly yapping back in response.

As Eggsy takes a moment to steel himself and remember how to breathe, the door opens. Baby is holding Harry’s dog in one arm, shushing him quietly before looking up at Eggsy. He isn’t bleeding out. He isn’t in danger; at least not in this instant.

Any air Eggsy might have inhaled gets caught in his throat as he looks at the scene in front of him. How many times has he seen this exact sight before, but with Swedish royalty standing in Baby’s place? Tilde is taller than Baby, and more slender, and she never wore headphones to block out tinnitus. She never wore old worn-out hoodies stolen from the back of Eggsy’s closet.

But he can clearly remember hundreds of times he’d come home from a mission or an errand or a run to find her standing there, holding his dog in her arms, smiling tenderly at Eggsy. He can also clearly remember the first time he’d come home and she hadn’t been there. For all the differences between Baby and Tilde, in this moment the resemblance is jarring.

The tender smile slides from Baby’s face as Eggsy waits for a greeting that isn’t going to come, and he realizes he’s staring at Baby like he’s gone completely mad. He drops JB’s leash and it breaks the spell holding them in place; Baby lowers Mr. Pickle to the floor. The two dogs run off into the house, JB leaving a tiny muddy trail of prints behind him. Eggsy forces himself to talk, glancing over Baby’s shoulder. He realizes he’s still looking for potential intruders, and sighs. “Harry’s home, then?”

“No,” Baby says, leaning against a foyer wall as Eggsy takes off his wet coat and hangs up his umbrella. “Arthur stopped by earlier to drop off his dog.” It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken today.

“Arthur,” Eggsy echoes quietly, and nods. He is hyperaware of Baby’s keen eyes on him as he shakes out his hair, running his hands through it in an attempt to dry it out. “Right. You know, you shouldn’t just open the door. I could’ve been anyone.”

The look on Baby’s face suggests he’s questioning Eggsy’s intelligence. He glances over at the door, where there is a peephole above a screen displaying a camera feed of their front porch. In Eggsy’s panic, he’d forgotten all about that. “I saw you,” Baby tells him bluntly.

“Right,” Eggsy shakes his head. Baby doesn’t reply so he adds, “Sorry.”

But Baby still stays silent. Any trace of the soft affection he’d shown a minute ago is gone as he looks at Eggsy, expression both curious and bored.

“Right,” Eggsy repeats, feeling like an idiot with every new word he speaks. “I’m going to have a shower, I’ll see you in a bit.”

Baby nods, jerky and uncertain, like he doesn’t know why Eggsy is sharing that with him. Truth be told, Eggsy doesn’t know why he’s sharing that with him either. He walks past Baby to the shower, and that’s their conversation for the day.

He would have to lie to say it doesn’t frustrate him a little. Baby is gorgeous, sure, but after seven days of scant and awkward conversation Eggsy has begun to wonder if what he’s seen is precisely what he’s going to get. He asks the guy every day if he wants to go home, but Baby never gives him any sort of answer. Maybe Baby is too scared of him to open up, or maybe he really is this quiet and reserved around everyone he knows.

Eggsy wishes he could talk to someone who knows Baby, but until they figure out how to take down the new Doc, he doubts he’s going to meet anyone like that. As he relaxes in the shower, lathering shampoo into his hair and scrubbing his arms and legs, the thought occurs to Eggsy that he could trace his own call history.

The instant he thinks of it he feels guilty, but his mind is also racing with the possibilities. He could find out who Iris is, since that name hasn’t come up in any conversation since Baby’s call on the plane. He could even see if Baby’s first call was directly to Doc, and find out if they’re all being played.

Eggsy winces as his sour shampoo gets too close to his eyes for comfort, and quickly rinses it away. Listening to Baby’s calls would be a breach of privacy, and Eggsy isn’t sure if he could overcome the guilt from that. Even if he is a spy, snooping around in someone’s private affairs just because they’re shy feels a bit off-kilter.

Luckily, Eggsy knows someone who has _no_ qualms snooping around whatsoever.

 

 

“Evening, Eggsy,” Merlin greets him without turning around. The omniscience alarmed Eggsy the first couple times, but by now he’s just accepted the fact that Merlin’s got eyes in the back of his head. “Where’s your charge?”

“He’s not my charge,” Eggsy huffs, sitting down anyway. He’d left said charge at home with the dogs, which had been more than okay with the apparently cuddly animal-lover. Eggsy’s secretly hoping Baby will be asleep by the time he gets back to London. “I came alone, I wanted some advice.”

Merlin doesn’t respond for a moment and Eggsy balls up his hands in frustration, wondering why everyone in his life is giving him the silent treatment. Right as he’s about to get up and storm out, Merlin smashes a button on his keyboard and then swivels around in his chair. “Ask away then, and I’ll do my best to advise.”

Eggsy can see a column of red text growing on Merlin’s computer screen, and that coupled with Merlin’s resolved gaze sends a bolt of anxiety through him. He wonders if he’s being overly paranoid in coming here. “I just wanted… you sure that’s not important?”

“Agent Nimue can handle herself for a moment,” Merlin says. His left eye twitches behind his glasses, and Eggsy has a brief but satisfying fantasy about replacing Merlin’s coffee with decaf and his energy drinks with Nyquil, if only to let the man heal for an hour or two. It’s getting late into the night but there’s no sign that Merlin will be going home any time soon. In fact, Eggsy thinks he spots a blanket in the corner. “What’s wrong?”

After a heady breath in and out, Eggsy blurts out, “I don’t know if Baby can be trusted.” Merlin’s eyes bug out a little, so he quickly amends, “I mean, I know he told Harry everything he knew about Doc, but I don’t… there’s something off about him.”

“The headphones?” Merlin squints.

“Nah, I’m used to those,” Eggsy admits, and then realizes that he _is_ used to the headphones and that they don’t put him off at all anymore. Sometimes he’ll wake up from a nightmare and hear quiet music playing from the warm body next to him, and be confused until he sees that one of Baby’s earbuds has come loose. He doesn’t recognize most of the songs in Baby’s personal collection, but most of the time he’s not listening anyway. “They drown out his tinnitus.”

Merlin frowns at this, but doesn’t address it. “If you don’t trust him, we can always kill him,” he says jovially.

The tone behind his words clearly suggests he’s joking, but Eggsy doesn’t like the joke anyway. “Get fucked. I just… want to know he’s not going to fuck Kingsman over.” That’s only one singular item on the long list of things he wants to know about Baby, but none of the other things are questions Merlin would be able to answer, or that Eggsy would feel comfortable asking.

Phrasing it in a more professional sense is clearly the way to go. Merlin smiles softly, leaning back in his chair. “If you want to know he’s loyal, you know what to do.”

He’s lost. “What?”

“Run the default tests.”

Eggsy laughs, but Merlin doesn’t laugh back. He twists around to look at his computer where the red text has spilled over the entire screen to create an unpleasant-looking mess of information. Eggsy informs him, “You’re a stone-cold bitch, Merlin.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, too absorbed in whatever fiasco poor Nimue has been dropped into. Eggsy’s heart skips a beat, and he can feel his face go tense. “ _Merlin_ ,” he repeats. “I’m not going to put Baby through the fucking tests.”

After a moment of silence, Eggsy leaves in a huff, feeling even more annoyed and worried than before. He only realizes when he’s back on the road home that the source of his worry has been shifted; now he’s less worried that there’s something wrong with Baby and more nervous that Merlin might actually put him through Kingsman training.

 

 

On the eighth day of Baby’s stay in London, the rain lets up.

It only stops for an hour or so in the early morning, long before Baby would usually be awake. Working as a criminal driver and then as a late-night pizza delivery driver has ensured that his teenage habit of sleeping in has continued past his teenage years, but sometimes he wakes up early anyway.

Sometimes it’s a nightmare that rouses him, the taste of bullets and money and blood still sitting sour on the back of his tongue. He’ll wake up, sudden and scared, shaking off voices that belonged to people who are no longer alive to speak. On those nights he never goes back to sleep.

Sometimes he wakes up and thinks he’s still imprisoned, and his ears lie to him and supply his mind with a noise he hasn’t heard since jail— the ringing of his cellmate’s alarm clock. The flat black clock was a commissary purchase, and its alarm rang every morning at 7:07, blaring noise accompanied by red LED numbers. On those mornings, Baby will look over for the clock and see the back of Debora’s head instead, and then he’ll realize the ringing is going off inside his skull.

He doesn’t think he’s ever woken up this peacefully his whole life. There’s no sirens, no gunshots, no screams, no howls. The room is quiet, and the bed beneath him is softer than his own. Music is pumping through one of his earbuds, sonorous and undemanding. His other earbud has fallen out, singing into the sheets.

Baby realizes he’s squinting into the darkness of the room and craning his head and neck off of the pillow to try to hear two specific sounds; two sounds he’s heard all week. The unrelenting rain and the sound of Eggsy breathing. Neither are present.

He falls back asleep, unsettled.

 

 

When he wakes up the rain is pouring down again, and Eggsy’s back is pressed against his chest. Baby thinks he must have dreamt his absence.

Light is flooding the room through the gaps in the curtains, suggesting that they’ve both slept in. He can see Eggsy’s suit hanging in his open closet, and tries to focus on that instead of the warm body curled up beside him. It doesn’t work at all. One of Eggsy’s legs is trapped beneath his, entangled between his ankles and the blanket.

Baby doesn’t risk breathing at all, making himself lie as still as he can. It’s a technique he used years ago when his parents would fight; he used to imagine that if he could freeze himself, maybe he could freeze time. Of course it never worked, but usually he’d end up falling asleep like that, tense and breathless with worry.

Right now he isn’t tense with worry, except for the fear that Eggsy will wake up and fly off the bed in shock and anger. He stays perfectly still, intent on stealing as many seconds as he can like this. Eggsy exhales, and Baby loses track of the seconds as he stares at the back of Eggsy’s neck, and presses his lips shut so he won’t breathe warm air against Eggsy’s ear.

They’ve shared a bed this whole week but this is the first time they’ve been so close. The first few nights Eggsy stayed on top of the covers, restlessly tossing and turning. Baby burrowed down as far as he could under all the sheets and blankets until he was too warm to focus on his anxiety. One night Eggsy hadn’t come home at all, and Baby didn’t sleep a wink until he finally showed up at nine in the morning. Eggsy didn’t say a word as he crawled under the covers; he probably didn’t even know Baby was awake. Some superspy.

His trip to England isn’t exactly what he’d imagined, not that he’s spent much time imagining a crazy future where he vacationed internationally. When he was a kid he used to dream about being a singer; it’s the only answer he’d ever give to the question of what he wanted to be when he grew up. Nobody had had the guts to tell him to aim lower, but as it turned out, nobody had to tell him at all. He outgrew his boyhood goals much faster than he outgrew his blond bangs. When Iris asked him five months ago where he envisioned himself in the future, he didn’t give her an answer.

He imagines how that conversation would play out now, eyeing Eggsy’s glasses where they’re folded up on the nightstand. Baby can’t fathom that there’s any sort of international chase going on to get him back, not when he’d been such a thorn in Iris’ side anyway. Maybe there’s some poor detective in Atlanta who’s been assigned to his case. Baby thinks what probably happened was that the man called Arthur pulled some secret agent strings, and that his case has magically cleared itself up in America. If people haven’t started to forget about him yet, they will. At least, he hopes some of them will.

He still doesn’t know what the future holds, and for all his talkativeness Eggsy hasn’t been very forthcoming with answers. His agency— Kingsman— is investigating Doc with the information Baby told them, so until they do something with that information Baby and Eggsy have been thrust into an awkward, domestic limbo. Baby can hear his pulse race a little at the thought, and he makes sure he’s lying perfectly still. Eggsy doesn’t move.

The necessity for Eggsy to watch Baby at all hours of the day never makes Baby uncomfortable, despite Eggsy’s constant check-ins. He feels more protected by the company than he’d like to admit, especially since he’s surrendered Doc’s secrets to spies and has to deal with nightmares about that every night. More than anything, the questions are what make him feel uneasy. Every day Eggsy asks him if he wants to go home, and every day Baby declines to give him an answer. It’s not a very fun routine.

Baby’s thoughts are interrupted by a stirring from behind him, and he quickly closes his eyes, feeling stupid for even pretending. But he’s not going to be caught snuggled up to Eggsy, even if the English boy is the one who rolled close to him in their sleep.

Eggsy’s movements are slow and unbothered, and then all of a sudden he jerks away, tugging the blanket off of them. When Baby finally summons the courage to open his eyes, Eggsy is staring right at him with the same fear on his face.

Baby is the first to break the silence for once, simply because he can’t stand the look in Eggsy’s eyes. “Morning,” he mumbles, moving his arm that had been sandwiched under Eggsy’s shoulder so he can pretend to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

“Morning,” echoes Eggsy, quiet. He’s clearly still caught off-guard but his shoulders sink down in relief as seconds pass by and Baby doesn’t say anything regarding the state they woke up in. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good.” For once, the unspoken agreement not to talk almost makes Baby angry. It’s such a stupid game they’re playing, but if Eggsy isn’t going to address it, he isn’t either. He wants so badly to reach out and touch the indent that Eggsy’s blanket has left on his shoulder, but of course he doesn’t. “You were out late,” Baby blurts out instead. He instantly regrets it.

Suddenly Eggsy’s eyes light up, and he rolls out of bed. If Baby didn’t actually dream Eggsy’s absence, that means he couldn’t have had more than four hours of sleep— but he looks wide awake now. “Oh, right, thanks for reminding me,” he says brightly, pulling his pajama shirt up over his head to reveal his bare chest. “I’ve got to teach you some stuff today. We’ve got work to do.”

Baby doesn’t love the idea of Work To Do. There’s a healed scar across Eggsy’s hipbone that matches the more recent stitches on his shoulder. His abdomen is defined but soft, and his arms look bigger than is really fair. The band on his boxers is stretching up on his right side.

“I mean,” Eggsy starts, stepping back towards the bed, “Only if you don’t want to leave.” Baby doesn’t remember how words work. “Do you want to go home?”

His tinnitus is suddenly painful as Baby realizes his iPod must have died at some point last night. He also realizes Eggsy is asking him a question; the same question he’s asked every day without fail. Somehow, the question hurts his ears once he’s understood it.

He forces his eyes away from Eggsy’s body, and deflects the question. “What’s the work?”

 

 

Halfway through the video of what looks like an army of sleeping teenagers, the thought occurs to Baby that community service would be more fun than this.

“How is this a test,” he speaks, breaking the silence they’ve been sitting in for half an hour. Every few seconds Eggsy will move the video forward a couple minutes, apparently looking for something but unable to place it exactly. “Is there something I’m missing?”

“No,” scoffs Eggsy, glancing over at him in mild irritation. “It’s going to happen any second now. This was one of the first nights I stayed here, and I’m worried that if _you_ end up staying here on your own, Merlin’s going to pull the same shit.”

Baby watches the monitor closely, more uneasy with every passing second of inactivity. One of the people at the end of the room rolls over in her sleep. “Which one are you?”

Eggsy moves the cursor to indicate where one of the boys is sleeping without a shirt, and then at a girl, and a different boy. “That’s me, and there’s Lancelot. And there’s Charlie, that fucking dickhead fuck.”

Baby flips to a different song in his iPod, trying to maintain interest in the monotone video. Eggsy made a promise to tell him more about the people he works with, so he assumes this is his way of doing so. They’re watching the creepy video on a laptop in Arthur’s office, chairs pushed close together as they share breakfast and uncomfortable silences. All in all, not the worst morning he’s had here— until suddenly Eggsy leans forward in his seat, and Baby follows suit. “There,” Eggsy breathes, pointing at the floor of the room. “There! Do you see it?”

At first, he doesn’t. The screen looks the same for a moment before the weirdest sight starts to appear. For a second it looks like the room is shrinking, and then the reality hits Baby; the floor isn’t rising. The dark substance welling up from the floor is water. The room is flooding.

A sickening chill hits him as he watches the water rise, and he only remembers to look over at the tiny Eggsy on screen once people start waking up. Instant pandemonium hits; everyone wakes up in a matter of seconds and then they all start problem-solving in their own ways. Eggsy is clearly lost, swimming away from the rest of the group to try to pry the door open. When that fails he swims over to where everyone else has gathered by the toilets, and starts to pound on a random wall with the clear intention of breaking it.

“That’s not what you’re supposed to do,” present-day Eggsy comments, knocking Baby out of his head. He whips over to look at Eggsy, panic rising in his throat. Eggsy looks wholly unbothered by the video, and even has a small smile on his face. “Unless you’re joining Statesman, and then that’s _exactly_ what you’re supposed to do. But Kingsman prefers that you know your physics and can use the bend of a toilet to breathe.”

Baby reaches forward and pauses the video. His heart is racing. “What?”

“Because there’s an unlimited supply of oxygen if you—”

“Why would Merlin do this to you?” Baby interrupts, usual anxieties and quietness put on hold by his panic. “Why would… you think he’s gonna do this to me? Why?”

“He won’t do this to you,” Eggsy says instantly. Baby hardly hears him, focusing on reading his lips instead. He tries to make the words ring true in his brain, but he’s too scared by the video frozen on the computer— by the lone person in the other corner of the room, still clinging to her bed. “I’m sorry, Baby, I didn’t mean— he’s not going to make you go through this. I was just— I got scared that he might, and I just wanted to warn you. I’m a proper fucking idiot, I’m sorry.”

There is a warmth against and around his palm. Baby looks down and sees Eggsy’s hand wrapped around his, and the second he notices it Eggsy pulls it away, clearly nervous. The only thought on Baby’s mind is that he can’t even swim, but he doesn’t tell Eggsy that, instead folding his hands in his lap nervously. He feels too sick to finish his breakfast, but hiding behind the burning embarrassment on his face is a burning curiosity. He reaches forward to continue playing the video.

The mirror that Eggsy is punching shatters, and water spills out into the next, brightly lit room. Instantly the room starts to drain; grates that Baby hadn’t noticed before open up and suck the water back to wherever it came from. He can breathe a little easier, but he can’t look away from Eggsy climbing out through the broken mirror, yelling muted profanities, or from the girl lying still on her bed. She isn’t tossing and turning any longer.

Baby swallows, hard. “She drowned,” he says, pressing his finger against the computer screen to point helplessly at the comatose girl.

“No,” Eggsy quickly corrects him. His hands jerk like he wants to reach out and touch Baby’s hand where the liquid crystals in the display ripple around his fingertip, but he doesn’t move this time. “She’s alive in Berlin.”

This is how Baby learns about Amelia, and about teamwork, and the idea of plants. He stays quiet for most of Eggsy’s explanation, and only cuts in when Eggsy apologizes and says that he probably doesn’t want to hear anything else. Baby shoves his concern aside, giving in to his curiosity. “What other tests did you have to do?”

Eggsy gets up from the desk to put their dishes away, and Baby stays by the laptop, thinking that that must be the end of that. It’s only when he looks over and sees Eggsy waiting for him in the hall that he realizes it’s just the very beginning.

 

 

“You’re lying,” he says. It’s the first sentence he’s spoken in a solid hour, and it startles Eggsy so much he nearly drops his coffee. “They didn’t make you jump out of a plane.”

Except as it turns out, they did make him jump out of a plane. And drug his drink. And tie him to train tracks. For every insane story Eggsy has to offer, he’s got proof; there’s paperwork for every single one, and video evidence for a few. He takes JB’s leash from Baby and trades it for his cell phone, which Baby accepts gingerly. On the screen is a brief description of the test that Baby skims over, followed by a video clip of five tiny silhouettes falling through a pleasant, blue sky.

“Fuck,” he says, handing the phone back. Eggsy just laughs.

They’ve been wandering around London for most of the afternoon with no clear destination as Eggsy regales Baby with the stories of his awful training. Occasionally something unfamiliar will catch his attention like a double-decker bus or passersby with particularly harsh accents, but for the most part, Baby has been listening raptly.

“That wasn’t even the worst test,” Eggsy boasts, and then deflates. “Well, for me, anyway. Lancelot had a horrid time with that one, she hates heights. The worst one was shooting the dog.”

Baby stares at the terrier sniffing around the sidewalk, and feels another wave of nausea. “You—”

But Eggsy interjects before that thought can even materialize, shaking his head and butting in, “No, I couldn’t. That was the one I messed up. They… give you a gun secretly loaded with blanks, and tell you to shoot your dog. It’s the last challenge, to test if you’re really willing to do anything for Kingsman. I… I wasn’t.”

Baby doesn’t blame Eggsy. He reaches for the lead and Eggsy hands it over without a word. It’s reassuring to feel JB tugging on the leash so he holds on tightly. “If you failed, how are you still working for them?”

“Desperate times called for desperate measures,” Eggsy shrugs. The motion is casual but the tone suggests what he’s discussing is anything but casual. “After Harry… okay, this is kind of a long story. And it’s sort of… confidential.” He pauses, surmising the situation, and then looks at Baby. “You can keep a secret, right?”

Baby nods, unsure what secret he’s agreeing to keep, and Eggsy begins to tell him the story of how he saved the world— twice.

 

 

The first story starts with a megalomaniac, as all good spy stories do. Baby learns about the woman named Gazelle with knives for calves, and about a man named Percival, and about Valentine. He already knows Valentine’s name, of course— everyone does, although these days it’s more like a tasteless joke than anything to be worried about. Baby remembers Bats warning him against putting any more voices into his head, and how Doc had been wary of the implants as well. When Eggsy first mentions Valentine’s chip, Baby shrugs and says he didn’t get it. Eggsy is uncertain if he’s telling the truth or not but he doesn’t know how to ask, so he moves on to more exciting parts.

Baby knows the story of Valentine’s microchips but he doesn’t know the parts of the story that weren’t televised. He learns the story that was hidden from the public; where exactly the kidnapped celebrities had been held, and why they’d been taken. He learns about Harry’s death and stays silent as Eggsy gets choked up. Baby is a very good listener, even if he’s not sure he should be listening.

Eggsy describes the sort of people that had bought into Valentine’s crazy plan and Baby has the fleeting thought that Doc and Bats were right to be wary. And then Eggsy tells him of things that don’t seem possible at all; exploding heads, a temper satellite, a Swedish princess that would later become his wife.

“Wait,” Baby interrupts. “You were married?”

“For a bit, yeah,” Eggsy brushes this off like it’s a common thing. Maybe it is in England; Baby’s got no idea. “It didn’t take.”

They sit in silence in Eggsy’s taxi for a few moments, Baby fidgeting because his instincts are telling him they’re in the wrong lane. Finally, Baby realizes Eggsy isn’t going to change the topic on his own, and neither of them seem particularly keen to discuss Baby’s ex-wife. He sucks his cheek between his teeth, and then gives into his curiosity. “What about the second time?”

 

 

The second time Eggsy saved the world, he was saving it from Poppy; a villain that Baby is far more familiar with. He feels bad for losing track of the conversation but it’s difficult to focus on Eggsy’s talk of alcohol and reincarnation when unwarranted memories start to flash through his brain. He remembers turning blue in prison.

Baby’s never done anything hard but he has a history with drugs; when he was younger, he used to smoke weed to calm down. It was a great source of relaxation and comfort for him; he’d stopped because Joseph had found out and torn him a new one. Doc disapproved of him smoking, saying it was dulling down his brain and making him slow, so there was always an added rush to know he was disobeying Doc’s orders.

The habit started when he met a man named Adam who was travelling through Atlanta as some sort of nomadic performer; he’d never let Baby come to any of his shows, but he had shared his weed and been a friendly face in dark times. Adam was only his dealer for a few weeks before he’d left forever. Unlike most of the other people who left Baby, however, Adam kept in contact with him for a few years before they stopped communicating. He was the first man Baby had ever met who wasn’t straight, and his first crush.

Eggsy is telling him something about Merlin getting hurt by the gates to Poppy’s base, and Baby forces himself to tune back in. Only when Eggsy mentions Elton John the recovering hostage does Baby finally cut in, trying to change the subject from drugs. “This is crazy.”

“It was,” Eggsy says, caught off-guard by Baby’s interruption. “It was _bonkers_. Once we’d gotten rid of Charlie and saved Elton, Agent Whisky came back and Harry and I had to throw him into the meat grinder. It was so gross. Oh, but before that, Poppy overdosed on heroin…”

Baby closes his eyes. He suddenly resents Eggsy’s insane stories simply because it sounds like Baby would be on his bad side in most of them. He wonders what Kingsman’s policy on travelling drug dealers is, and then forces himself to stop thinking about his childhood crush. “I’m sorry,” he interrupts again. When he opens his eyes, Eggsy is looking at him. He feels hyperconscious of how American his voice sounds. “I’m just having a little trouble believing all of this.”

They’re almost home; Baby hasn’t been outside much in the past week but he has a knack for recognizing streets. After maybe another five minutes they could pull into Harry and Eggsy’s driveway and retire into silence for the night. The idea makes him feel miserable but he thinks it’s probably the best course of action. The two of them have been slowly growing closer; their relationship is quickly careening away from the tangible “He put me into witness protection after I tried to steal his car” into an indeterminate temporary future together.

Baby doesn’t like uncertainty. He wonders if maybe he should say something tomorrow when Eggsy asks him if he wants to go home. Maybe Eggsy’s been waiting for him to want to leave this whole time, English manners preventing him from kicking Baby out. The thought is equally upsetting and reasonable.

But just before they turn onto their street, Eggsy turns the car around in the middle of the road without warning. The momentum presses Baby back against his seat and as soon as he can manage it, he lifts his head to look over at Eggsy, confused.

“I’m going to take you somewhere Harry told me I couldn’t,” Eggsy explains, which is not a real explanation at all. He looks over at Baby and grins wide, and the awkward fluttering that has affected Baby’s nerves all day instantly returns.

 

 

Sometimes when Eggsy comes up with a particularly mad idea, he just goes out and does it because in the back of his head he knows if he tells anyone about it they’ll talk him out of it. He would probably make a superb supervillain if he had the desire to; he comes up with some truly crazy schemes. But rarely are they as ill-conceived as this.

This is not one of Eggsy’s better ideas.

Somehow, in the rush to get to the tailor shop before they closed for the night, Eggsy forgot to consider his budding crush on Baby. Despite continual attempts on both of their parts, they have been bonding over the past week, and for Eggsy that means becoming more and more aware of exactly how Baby makes him feel. Sometimes he’s able to purely blame it on physicality; Baby has a soft face and doe eyes that would charm the devil himself into a life of peace and kindness.

But other times it isn’t even how Baby looks that floors Eggsy; it’s the gentleness with which he approaches everything in his life. Baby is a particularly troubled young man and Eggsy knows what that feels like; he used to be particularly troubled himself. All of Baby’s friends are drug dealers, addicts, criminals, or ghosts, and he’s on parole after spending a year imprisoned for his crimes. But despite all that, he tackles every situation with an awkward grace and kindness that makes it impossible not to like him.

That’s when Eggsy knows he’s fucked; not when he thinks about Baby in the shower, or wakes up next to him in an unfortunate state. He’s fucked because the other day he said “let’s go home” by accident and Baby hadn’t said a word. Because sometimes he thinks that everything Baby has done is pardonable in light of his smile as he rubs JB’s belly. He’s well and truly fucked because he knows that this is going to come to an end soon, but he doesn’t know how he’s going to begin to move on from someone so great.

He can already hear Harry lecturing him about attachment.

Anyway, his predicament right now isn’t related to Baby’s eventual departure, but to Baby’s current state— or rather, his current state of dress. Eggsy realizes he’s drifted out of a conversation as the expectant look on Baby’s face turns into one of confusion.

“Sorry, go again?” he mumbles, eyes roaming wild. The tailor is obviously amused behind his desk, but Eggsy pays him no mind. His attention is solely focused on Baby: Baby, whose body has been absolutely wasted on letterman jackets too short for his torso.

To say that he looks good in a suit would be the understatement of the century. The suit that Kingsman’s tailor has picked out for Baby is all dark blue jewel tones and crisp greys, and it flatters his body like no other clothes that Eggsy has seen him in. Eggsy wants to tell him to burn the hoodie he walked in here with, and never wear anything other than that suit for the rest of his life.

Baby fidgets with the cufflinks, pulling his sleeves down a little farther. The action stretches the shoulders out even further and Eggsy steps forward almost subconsciously. “I’m not sure if it suits me,” Baby muses. He unbuttons the jacket to reveal the tight grey shirt underneath, covered in intricate patterns. It’s extravagant and no doubt expensive, but Baby is just eyeing it like he’s uncertain how he looks.

“Get fucked,” Eggsy tells him before he can restrain himself, and Baby quickly glances up at him. “You look like a fucking movie star,” he blurts out instead of apologizing, because apparently you can take the boy out of the streets but you can’t take the tactlessness out of the boy.

Thankfully, Baby doesn’t seem to be offended by his profane compliment, just raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Oh yeah?” He undoes another button, and Eggsy makes a mental note to dry all Baby’s shirts at the highest temperature so that they all stretch over his chest that way. “Think I could be the next James Bond?”

 _You could be my Q,_ Eggsy struggles not to say. _I’ll show you James Bond_ , he struggles not to say. _Take your pants off_ , he struggles not to say. He finally settles on, “You should keep it.”

Baby looks over at the tailor behind the counter, who seems to have lost interest in their conversation, and then back to Eggsy. His expression is incredulous. “What?”

“If you’re going to be hanging out with Kingsmen, you should look the part.” Eggsy swallows down the lump in his throat. “Here,” and he ushers Baby back into the changing room, closing the door behind them.

Baby doesn’t move away from him and suddenly they’re painfully close, and Eggsy wishes he was brave enough to make a move. He has no problem flirting with just about any attractive person who comes his way, but it feels unusually hard with Baby. He doesn’t want to fuck things up— and the moment after he thinks _that_ , he thinks again about how fucked he is.

“I never owned a suit before Kingsman,” Eggsy says, staring over Baby’s shoulder at the trifold mirror. Eventually Baby gets the memo and turns around, but he doesn’t move to stand in front like Eggsy had stood with Harry forever ago. Instead they stand at each other’s side, and Eggsy can’t help but size Baby up. They look similar in many ways but Baby towers above him, and his skin is sunkissed where it peeks out from under his grey shirt. Eggsy’s skin is pale as the day he was born, but growing redder with every passing second as he ogles Baby.

“I did,” Baby says, and Eggsy does not remember what he’s talking about at all. Baby just shrugs, and the grin that rises to his face is somewhat embarrassed. “I didn’t wear it much, though. I only wore a suit to take my girl out.”

Eggsy’s heart sinks. Suddenly the changing room is far too cramped. He silently reaches out to pull the coat hook on the wall to open the adjacent secret room, and Baby’s face lights up. He moves past Eggsy into the room, looking as awed by the white walls covered in weapons as Eggsy had felt the first time he came here. “Careful,” Eggsy warns as he reaches for one of the lighters, hyperaware of how much he sounds like Harry. “That’s a hand grenade.”

Baby pulls his hand away quickly, clearly not as drawn to the potential of violence as Eggsy once was. He’s still intrigued by the room though, moving around it with an honest curiosity that almost makes Eggsy forget to feel jealous. “What are these?”

“Just regular umbrellas.” Eggsy manages to keep a straight face for ten seconds before cracking. “No, obviously not, come on.” He picks up an umbrella and hands it to Baby, who gingerly accepts it like it might be another explosive. “Open it.”

The umbrella opens and Baby gasps— actually _gasps_ at the HUD inside. He twirls it around, eyes darting back and forth as he reads the green display text and tries to make sense of it. “What’s it do?”

“A lot,” Eggsy says, double-checking that the gun racks are going to remain stowed. He’s going to assume Baby’s dislike of guns hasn’t changed in the past week. “It’s a shield, a firearm, a levitation device in a pinch… just kidding. I’m not Mary Poppins.”

Baby smiles, probably just humouring Eggsy’s bad joke. He spins the umbrella once more, and suddenly Eggsy can’t restrain his jealousy any longer. He picks up a utility knife from one of the shelves, comparing it to his own knife. His is rusted from use, so Eggsy switches them out. “So,” he starts, awkward and unconvincing, “you have someone waiting for you back home?”

Baby looks at the knife in Eggsy’s hand, and then at Eggsy’s face, clearly trying to determine if he’s being threatened. “What?”

“Uh,” Eggsy pockets his knife quickly and awkwardly. “You mentioned a girl.” The only girl he could think of would be Debora, a near-accomplice who had testified for Baby in his trial. Merlin and Harry had both mentioned her but Baby hadn’t mentioned her name yet, so Eggsy didn’t say anything. The only outcome to this conversation worse than ‘ _I have to deal with my unrequited crush while you get to go home to your girlfriend_ ’ would be all that and a side of ‘ _I know your girlfriend’s name because I got debriefed on you, I promise I’m not stalking you, if I was stalking you how would I know your girlfriend’s name and occupation, uh, shite, forget that last part’._

“Oh,” Baby says, and a sadness passes over his face, quickly replaced by that soft smile Eggsy has grown used to on him. “I’m not… yeah, there was someone, but we’re not seeing each other anymore. We’re better off friends; I still text her every once in a while, but it’s not… like that.”

 _Rejoice!_ cry the heavens, and Eggsy’s heart is lifted once more. He tries not to let his obvious relief show on his face but it’s difficult when Baby is smiling back at him like that. He coughs, trying to refocus his energy on the conversation at hand. “Have you told her you’ve been kidnapped and you’re currently staying in England with a spy?”

“I have not,” Baby answers, smiling back at Eggsy in a funny sort of way.

 

 

**MESSAGES – 1 new message**

**DEBORA – five days ago**

I’m so sorry Baby I just listened to your voicemail, things have been a little hectic for me. You don’t need to feel like you’re dragging me down I’m your friend and I want to know what’s going on

**SENT – five days ago**

It’s okay just in a weird situation

**DEBORA – five days ago**

What’s going on

Are you safe?

Baby

**SENT – four days ago**

I’m okay I’m safe sorry for making you worry

Look at this dog (1 Image attachment)

**DEBORA – four days ago**

Cute!! I wasn’t worried just wanted to know what was going on. Are you back in Atlanta?

**SENT – four days ago**

Yes. You in Kentucky still

*Still?

Debora?

**DEBORA – three days ago**

Sorry Baby like I said things have been a bit hectic haha!! Yes I’m in Kentucky. Whose dog and what’s its name?

**SENT – three days ago**

new friend. The dog’s name is JB: Jack Bauer.

**DEBORA – three days ago**

So cute! Should I be jealous of this new friend? J

**SENT – three days ago**

No comment

**DEBORA – three days ago**

OMG BABY!! Is that what you wanted to tell me about when you called? OMG

**DEBORA – two days ago**

I tried to call you but it was long distance for some reason

Weird

**SENT – two days ago**

That is weird. Just tried calling you and it also said long distance, I don’t know the number to your work so I can’t bug your new boss

**DEBORA – one day ago**

Really weird

I noticed you’re avoiding my questions 0;) when will I get to learn about JB’s mom?

**SENT – one day ago**

No comment

**SENT – today**

*JB’s dad

**DEBORA – today**

Omg!! So happy for you.

Ive kinda met someone too and she’s a girl. Funny how that worked out :’)

**SENT – today**

Debbie thats so cool! Did you meet her at the diner?

**DEBORA – today**

Yep, I met her at work. Her name is Roxanne :) I’m not sure if she likes me back but I really like her and I think I’m gonna give it a go

Whats JBs dad’s name?

**SENT – today**

Eggsy

**DEBORA – today**

?? Typo?

**SENT – today**

nope

**DEBORA – today**

At least he has a cute dog

 

 

As a rule, Baby doesn’t do relationships; a rule that he’s broken exactly once to date. Seeing Debora’s free spirit and open heart had provided him with the perfect escape from the criminal underworld, and so he’d fallen into an easy relationship with her that had ended in jail and then again in a diner in Kentucky. There’s something revoltingly poetic about the location in which Baby and Debora walked in and out of each other’s lives. If God exists, she’s been watching Baby drive around in circles his entire life and laughing at him from heaven while refusing to right his course.

Before Debora, any affection he felt was fleeting. (In a way he supposes his affection for Debora was fleeting too, but he doesn’t want to admit that even to himself.) He hadn’t been allowed to take time to get to know someone unless he was casing a mark, so the most intimate moments of Baby’s life up until now have been watching movies alone at home with Joseph and discovering he has a thing for Ryan Gosling.

Bonding with Eggsy happens gradually and all at once; he’s been sweet on him since he got in his car and tried to rob him, but at the same time his emotions have been conflicted by several factors. Eggsy knows how to use a weapon better than anyone Baby has ever known, including _Buddy_ , and that terrifies and relaxes him in equal measure.

Eggsy is everything Baby isn’t— he’s loud, brave, confident, and experienced. He’s travelled the world, saved said world twice, gotten married and divorced, and dove out of the sky. Baby has given the same amount of consideration to skydiving as he has considered moving to Atlantis. He’s never had sex, let alone fingered someone to plant a tracker inside their mucous membranes. He’s never owned a dog.

And yet despite all their differences Baby feels a deep connection to Eggsy that he can’t shake. He doesn’t realize the exact depths of this connection until one night Eggsy comes home late from a mission that was supposed to be an innocuous day trip, dirt spattered across his forehead like paint. There’s tape across his nose and dried blood underneath it, and even JB doesn’t jump up to see him like usual, sensing that something terrible happened.

Eggsy doesn’t say a word to Baby; he just pushes past him and walks into the house. Baby is left to shut the door and lock it, and then he follows Eggsy upstairs. “What went wrong?” he asks, pausing his music for once. His tinnitus is nearly unbearable, but under that he can hear two other unpleasant noises: Eggsy’s heavy breathing, and his own frantic heartbeat.

“Everything,” Eggsy says without looking back at him. He walks into their— _his_ room, and turns on his shower, stripping before Baby can think to look away. The bathroom door slams shut behind him and Baby is left standing there, trying to ignore his own panic.

By the time Eggsy emerges from the shower Baby has worked himself into a bad state of anxiety, but he doesn’t let it show on his face. He watches Eggsy recline onto the bed, wishing he could offer to change Eggsy’s bandages without that being weird.

They have worked out a functional if awkward dynamic during his time here: Eggsy talks, he listens. It becomes obvious as Eggsy pulls on a nightshirt that he has no interest in filling up all the silence between them as he usually does, and the quietness that Baby usually enjoys suddenly feels suffocating.

So he shoves down his concern and starts talking. “Doc used to make a game out of boosting cars. He would give me all these imaginary parameters, and I’d have to stick to them otherwise I’d lose the game. It would be shit like, you have to find us a red sedan that drives automatic with only a tape deck. Find us a white pick-up with plus-sized wheels and a bumper sticker. Find us a ride with a hula girl on the dashboard.”

Eggsy is staring at him wordlessly, and so Baby continues. He speaks in a level voice but to him it feels like he’s shouting, simply because he’s never, ever, _ever_ told anyone any of this before. Not Harry. Not Iris. Not Joseph. Not Debora. “And I’d always find what he wanted after a few hours, or days, and every time we got a new ride he would fill the trunk with drugs and I’d drive it to whoever was buying it. He got a real kick out of the whole thing; he called me Baby, the Chauffeur and Car Connoisseur.” The words make him want to throw up. “And then we’d give them the car and the drugs and we’d get in another car and drive away, and the game would begin all over again. I could never figure out why he came up with all those stupid rules— whether it was like, the buyer had actually requested a blue vessel for their cocaine with a vanity plate and tape deck, or if Doc was just fucking with me for fun because he was crazy.”

He doesn’t break eye contact with Eggsy. “Later on, I realized it was just a distraction. He was turning my talent into cold hard profit, and he had to distract me from how much money he was making off every sale while I was stuck paying off my bullshit debt to him. He invented the game so that I would feel useful and wanted and so that I wouldn’t notice that we never got to keep any of the cars.”

Eggsy doesn’t say anything, twisting the blankets in his hands. He’s got a nasty cut on the back of his hand, and Baby gets up wordlessly to go retrieve a cloth. His ears are ringing as he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, detachedly running the faucet over the soft cloth. He feels hideously scared, but he pushes through it.

Returning to sit on the bed, Baby reaches for Eggsy’s hand. He surrenders it, staying silent. It’s obvious that he isn’t sure what reaction he should offer, or maybe he just isn’t ready to talk yet. Baby understands that impulse. He watches Eggsy wince as Baby wipes his cut clean, careful not to put too much pressure on it. The skin is already starting to heal.

He starts talking again as it becomes evident that Eggsy isn’t going to start talking. He tells him everything about Doc that he hadn’t told Harry because it hadn’t been important. The sense of belonging. The constant fear. The death. He tells Eggsy about what Doc had done to Joseph, and where Joseph is now, and how he’s worried that Doc— that _Darcy_ might retaliate against Holiday Villa Assisted Senior Living because Baby ran out on her.

“Is he your grandfather?” Eggsy asks. It’s the first question he’s had since Baby started, and it throws him off. For a second he has no idea who Eggsy means. “Joseph?”

“Oh,” Baby says quietly. That’s a whole different can of worms. He isn’t sure if he should be flattered or disappointed that Eggsy hasn’t researched him. He settles on relief. “No. He’s my foster father.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow so Baby starts to tell him about Joseph, which of course leads backwards into an explanation of how exactly he’d gotten into the foster system in the first place. He tells Eggsy something he’d once heard Iris say, that _foster care_ was an oxymoron. It causes a small smile, and Baby remembers to breathe; he exhales for the first time in an hour.

As the sun sinks down out of sight Baby doesn’t stop talking, because it seems to calm Eggsy down. They’re lying beside each other now, Eggsy fidgeting with the damp cloth and trying to fight the urge to reopen the cut. It feels intimate which is frightening, but Baby perseveres. He tells Eggsy about his parents, how his mom was a singer and his dad was a crook. “It used to get real bad,” he says, and doesn’t even notice how strong his accent has become. “He used to hit her, and they’d fight all the time. I wanted to help, but I was too young, and she’d never let me see what was really going on. It was probably worse than I even saw. And the crash—”

All of a sudden, his random bout of talkativeness is over. The usual ringing from his tinnitus seems to pierce through his skull, and Baby has to shut his eyes against the noise and the painful memories. He’s never been so honest in his whole life before, not all at once like this, and suddenly it’s impossible to continue. The crash, the aftermath, the rapid descent into crime: these are things Eggsy knows about him already.

Baby opens his eyes, paralyzed by fear. Eggsy just hums gently for a moment, and then changes course: “My dad was a hero.”

For a second it seems impossibly cruel that he would choose to bring that up now, and Eggsy must see the hurt in Baby’s eyes because he quickly remedies it by continuing. He tells Baby about how his dad had died a Kingsman, leaving his widowed mother penniless with a young son she had no idea how to take care of. Harry had watched at a distance for most of Eggsy’s childhood, but hadn’t been able to make himself known. This meant the only father figure Eggsy knew other than his dead hero dad was Dean.

Baby quickly develops a distaste for Dean as Eggsy’s words turn sour. He learns about Eggsy’s baby sister, and how he’d felt an inordinate amount of responsibility for her and their mother and the household. At first Baby thinks Eggsy is dismissing his stories of Doc and his parents because he doesn’t know how to process them, but then he realizes that this is just an equivalent exchange.

They’ve laid together in the dark for hours now without touching, just sharing their grief and fear and histories. Baby is surprised to realize that despite all the honesty, he doesn’t feel _bad_. There’s something incredibly cathartic about laying all his shit out for another person and saying “ _here’s how bad I had it, here’s what I lived through, here’s what made me who I am_ ”.

“They broke up though, right?” he interrupts before Eggsy can change the subject and talk about how brilliantly his little sister is doing in school. “He’s not… they don’t live there anymore?”

“Yeah, he’s gone,” Eggsy says, and his eyes meet Baby’s. They fall into silence, both waiting for the other to say something further. But Baby doesn’t want to know anything more about Dean; he’s met more than his fair share of shitty men, and he’s just glad that Eggsy’s mum Michelle and her kids are safe now.

Baby waits for Eggsy to continue his story about his sister, but no more details come. Instead, Eggsy surprises him with an awkward question. “Are you any good at singing?”

“Yeah,” Baby says, foregoing modesty in favour of yawning halfway through the words. He could go on about how he likes music and how if there’s any other career for him it’s as a musician, but that he’ll probably end up dead years before that happens. Somehow he doesn’t think Eggsy would enjoy or allow the rant, so he blinks a couple times before forcing his next words out. “Want me to sing to you?”

Eggsy nods, closing his eyes expectantly. He wants a lullaby; Baby can do that. _Easy_ drifts into his head right away, but he doesn’t know if he can manage to get through one of his mother’s songs right now without crying— not after all the emotions they’ve dredged up tonight. He considers shuffling through one of his iPods to find something, but then Eggsy opens one eye to look at him and Baby starts singing before he knows what he’s saying.

“I've been seeing angels in my living room, that have walked the sun and have slept on the moon,” he starts, low and nervous. Eggsy closes his eyes again, and his hand twitches where it lies on the sheets between them. Baby doesn’t know much about sharing a bed, but he has a sneaking suspicion that if he reached out to hold Eggsy’s hand, the gesture wouldn’t be unappreciated.

But then again, he doesn’t really know. He has no idea how it would be received because he’s never been in a situation like this before, and because he doesn’t know how Eggsy actually feels. Baby keeps singing about angels quietly, watching the rise and fall of Eggsy’s chest. He doesn’t sing the full song, having trouble remembering the words for once. Lyrics and music are usually Baby’s life, so it’s a little strange that he can’t remember exactly how the song went. If he had to guess, he’d say that Eggsy drifting off to sleep thoroughly distracted him.

Right as Baby’s about to fall asleep too, he feels a hand touch his. His eyes fly open to see Eggsy pull his fingers away, but it’s too late; the heat spreading through Baby’s fingers has already turned his cheeks darker. Eggsy’s half-asleep but he still mumbles out the question that Baby had hoped they wouldn’t get around to today. “D’you wanna go home, Baby?”

And Baby thinks, _no_.


End file.
